Tiger of a Different Stripe
by GhyllWyne
Summary: Murders without apparent motive, and a killer who leaves no trace, send Sherlock and John through a maze of conflicting clues in a race to save the final victim before time runs out. Note: The story is completely written and betaed. I will post the remaining three chapters over the next few days as I finish proofing. The total length is a little over 22k.
1. Chapter 1

**Summary**

Murders without apparent motive, and a killer who leaves no trace lead Sherlock and John through a maze of conflicting evidence in a race to save the final victim before time runs out.

**Author's Note**: This story is set in an imaginary season four sans all the things that I wish hadn't happened after HoB, like Sherlock's pseudo-cide, and Mary. And Euros. Just for fun.

The entire story is completely written and betaed. I'll be posting the remaining chapters over the next few days as I finish the final proofing. More notes at the end. - Ghyll

**Chapter One**

Barts Hospital Mortuary

Saturday, May 7

It's like looking in a mirror. The shape of this woman's face, the tilt of her nose, her eye colour- even the pyjamas she was wearing and the way she had pulled back her hair on the final night of her life. The resemblance is so stunning that it takes her breath away.

The sheer creepiness makes Molly tug the drape back into place and move several quick paces away to regroup.

According to the crime scene notes, the woman was found in her bed, apparently asleep, except that she wasn't. She was a doctor, a year younger than Molly, and also worked at a hospital. Apparently her work habits were so reliably predictable that her employer had called police to do a welfare check when she failed to show up for her shift and wasn't responding to texts or calls.

"Another trait we had in common," she says, then glances around the mortuary to make sure she's not being observed. There are only two other staff members on duty today, and one is especially cat-footed when it comes to materializing at her elbow without warning. Shrinking away from a corpse and talking to herself are bad enough without being caught in the act.

She is acutely aware that she's not being rational about this, but her sense of dread is visceral, and impossible to ignore.

As the seconds tick by, she grows more and more annoyed with herself, until finally she's had enough. Before her wimpy self can come up with a reason not to, her common sense self walks directly back to the body and pulls the drape completely off.

For a long moment, the illusion holds. And then, she begins to see more differences than similarities. In fact, the longer she studies the woman's features, the less resemblance there is. She thinks she's heard a technical term for whatever she just experienced, one Sherlock could no doubt instantly supply, and then describe for her, chapter and verse. For once, she's glad he's not here.

She sets to work, grounding herself once more in the meticulous process of her task. It doesn't take long to find the first clue. There is a fresh injection mark in the victim's left thigh, a site often used by insulin dependent diabetics, but there are no tell-tale marks of the daily blood sugar testing required for such a patient. There were also no drugs found on the premises other than a bottle of paracetamol in the bathroom. Combined with the dilated pupils and the fact noted by the crime scene supervisor that the woman's bed linens and her pyjamas were soaked with sweat, it appears that the victim succumbed to a drug overdose. But which drug? And how did all evidence of it disappear from the scene?

The internal examination is unremarkable. From all appearance, the woman was in perfect health one moment, and dead the next, further suggesting that the injection was the cause. Molly carefully extracts blood and tissue samples from the injection site and multiple locations in the body. Both the manner and cause of death will be listed as 'undetermined' until the samples are analysed. Either cocaine or insulin would produce the symptoms seen in this victim. If the drug was cocaine, it will be easily detected. Insulin is a different story. It quickly breaks down in the body, leaving only a suggestion of its presence behind. The tests are complex, and the results often open to question, particularly by a defence team if police ever find the killer and bring him to trial. It's one of the reasons there have been so few successful prosecutions where insulin was the murder weapon.

When she finally calls Greg to tell him her findings, he's obviously disappointed. "You mean there's a chance we'll never know what killed her?"

"No, I said there's a chance we won't have the kind of conclusive results the courts want, if it turns out to be insulin. The good news is that you found her quickly. The bad news is that insulin starts to break down almost immediately, and we'll be looking for the signs it was there. That's a hit or miss operation."

"Do you think Sherlock would have better luck than your lab?"

Molly smiles into the phone. "Sorry, not even Sherlock can change body chemistry."

"Would she have had time to inject herself and still get rid of the evidence?"

"I can't say until we know which drug it was, and how much of it she took. She may have had time, but you've searched the flat and the bins outside. Where would it be?"

"I've been asking myself the same question."

She promises to call him with the results as soon as they come in.

It ends up taking two weeks to keep that promise. "There is a 80 precent probability that it was a lethal dose of insulin," She tells him over the phone. When he doesn't respond, she adds, "You really can't get much better than that, Greg."

"Yeah, sorry. I know you said it wouldn't be 100 percent. " He sounds tired.

"Sounds like you haven't found a suspect yet."

"Not even close. No witnesses, no fingerprints, no trace evidence. No enemies. No angry boyfriends. No trouble at work. No... anything. Unless we catch a break, it's as good as over."

"Well, here's hoping you get that break," Molly tells him and gets a glum 'thanks' in reply.

She rings off. All that remains is to finish her final report and file it. Her part of the investigation is over.

Until it isn't.

Saturday, July 2

Greg's call spoils a rare Saturday morning lie-in and brings Molly into the mortuary with a pillow crease on her cheek and a vaguely touchy stomach thanks to last night's darts tournament and the obligatory post-match toasting. She finds him waiting for her in her office with a coffee that's still hot and a paper-wrapped egg sandwich. She takes the coffee gratefully, but places the sandwich in a drawer which she closes to mask the smell of eggs and cheese.

"Sorry about the rush," Greg says by way of greeting, "but I think this is another insulin overdose. You remember the one we worked on in May?"

She remembers all too well. Although she has since managed to identify the likely cause of her ridiculous reaction to that poor woman's face, knowing why it happened doesn't make her feel any less foolish. It was a long-ago nightmare that had plagued her for weeks after her first cadaver dissection. In the dream she had been standing over a body, just as she'd been doing in May, except that in the dream it really had been her own dead body on the table. How the dream could have triggered such a response after all this time, she wasn't sure, but it was the best explanation she could find.

Thankfully, the victim Greg has brought in this morning doesn't resemble the first one- or Molly- at all. She is much older, and considerably overweight.

"Her pupils are dilated, just like the first one." Greg offers as Molly begins the external examination. "And her shirt is stained with sweat."

"I'm not seeing any indication of testing punctures on her fingertips, so if it does turn out to be insulin, it wasn't therapeutic." She glances up at Greg. "Where was she found?"

"Lying on the sofa in her sitting room, peaceful as if she was napping. The neighbour heard the victim's phone ringing off the hook for a few hours and went to find out why she wasn't answering since he knew she was at home. He looked in the window when she didn't come to the door."

She moves to the victim's left thigh and almost immediately finds the perimortem injection she knows Greg is looking for. "It's the same as the one we found on the first victim."

"That's what I needed to hear." He pulls out his phone and heads for the door. "I'll be back."

Molly imagines Sherlock's mobile is about to ring.

She is just finishing up her post mortem when Greg returns with John and Sherlock. Sherlock strides to the table and does a quick circuit of the body, then comes to a halt and peers at the woman's left thigh with his magnifying glass. He addresses Lestrade without looking up. "What links this victim to the first other than the suspected insulin overdose?"

Greg takes a breath and launches into his evidence. "Both single, living alone in Central London. Both apparently healthy and found dead in their homes without any sign of struggle or outward physical injury. No forced entry."

Sherlock has moved to the woman's head to examine her eyes. "That's all?"

Greg frowns. "You don't see a pattern?" He gives John a questioning look.

Sherlock straightens and also turns to look at John.

John picks up the thread on cue. "If both victims were injected with lethal doses of insulin, I'd have to call that a pattern," he tells them, which gets a smile from Greg and a frown from Sherlock, until he adds, "but I don't see a serial killer."

Greg smile evaporates. "You don't?"

"There is no trademark signature," Sherlock replies. "No sensational aspects to draw press coverage. You may have a single killer, but I see no indication of psychopathy. You could have two accidental killings."

"Accidental? Exactly the same way?" Greg looks at John. "He's joking, right?"

John shakes his head. "Insulin abuse for weight loss is more common than you might think. Also, it can act as a performance enhancement for bodybuilders. It's dangerous as hell, and far from the most effective means to that end, but people do crazy things in the name of cutting corners."

"But there were no drugs at either crime scene," Greg points out.

John shrugs. "Fear of the needle might keep a new user from injecting herself. Add an accommodating drug dealer who makes a couple of mistakes, and you've got two dead bodies."

Greg looks from John to Sherlock and back, frowning. "I've never had to sell you on a case before. It's always the other way round. Now you're telling me this isn't a serial killer because he didn't what- hack off their heads with an axe? How do you know his signature isn't pristine bodies posed like they're asleep?"

Sherlock goes quiet for a long moment. "Lestrade, you may actually have a point."

"I DO have a point. Now, tell me you're going to take the bloody case."

"Send me copies of both files, and I'll let you know."

Greg lets out a heavy breath as soon as the door closes behind Sherlock and John. "John told me Sherlock's been in a mood lately. That usually means he's bored, and I figured he'd jump right on this."

Molly smiles. "He just likes to be the one to put it together. He'll be happy once he's found something that puts him ahead of you."

Greg's gaze shifts back to the door. "I hope it doesn't take another body to convince him."

In the taxi on the way home, John watches Sherlock tapping and scrolling on his phone. "You really think he has a point?"

Sherlock glances at him, then resumes scrolling. "A nonviolent serial killer is an intriguing concept."

John smiles. "So, that's a yes?"

"The similarities are interesting."

"He said grudgingly," John teases.

"Not at all. I am merely agreeing that there are enough similarities to warrant further investigation."

"Of course."

That earns him a narrow glance, but no comment.

Sherlock opens his laptop and resumes his research as soon as they walk into the flat.

Two hours later when John returns from an errand, he finds Sherlock still in the same spot. "Still at it?"

"There was a single article about the first murder, the day after it happened. It didn't even include the victim's name, just that she was a doctor."

"Sounds like her family hadn't been notified when the story was published," John offers, "Maybe there just wasn't enough new information later on to merit another article?"

"Possibly."

"If the police tell the press that there's a chance this new murder is related to the first, the coverage will be on the front page of every tabloid," John continues.

Sherlock frowns at the screen. "There's nothing about either killing that suggests a serial killer who was courting press coverage. Exactly the opposite, in fact. Both murders demonstrate the cold efficiency of a contract killer, but the victims seem highly unlikely targets for a paid assassin."

"And an insulin overdose is hardly an efficient murder weapon," John adds.

"It could be an inept drug dealer as you described to Lestrade."

"Or," John adds, "a serial killer who takes pride in leaving a tidy scene."

There's a knock on the door downstairs, then Mrs Hudson talking with someone, followed by her footsteps coming up the stairs. She comes into the flat carrying a large, fat brown envelope. "It's from Greg," she tells Sherlock, handing him the envelope. "Is it a case?"

Sherlock takes it to the coffee table and starts sorting the contents into stacks. "Perhaps."

Three hours later, John is ready for an evening out with Stamford. "Sherlock, I'm off out."

"Hmmm." The wall collage he's creating has Sherlock's full attention.

"Okay, I'll see you when I get back." That earns him another 'hmmm'.

The sitting room is empty when John comes home, and Sherlock's door is closed.

By the following morning, Sherlock has finished converting the files to his usual elaborately-constructed mind map. John finds him standing motionless in front of it when he comes down to make tea.

"Having any luck?" John asks, handing Sherlock his tea.

"They willingly admitted the killer to their homes. What stranger would you allow to enter your home?"

John sips his tea, thinking. "As myself, or do you want me to imagine what a single woman would do?"

Sherlock turns to look at him. "Excellent point." He turns toward the open door and shouts "Mrs Hudson!"

John winces. "It's barely seven in the morning!"

"And?" Sherlock asks archly, then aims his voice toward the stairs for another shout. "Mrs Hudson!"

It never fails to surprise and annoy John that Mrs Hudson nearly always comes out of her flat and up the stairs when Sherlock calls for her, no matter the hour, and she does not disappoint this time, either.

"I'm coming, for heaven's sake," she calls from the bottom of the steps.

Sherlock launches into his hypothetical the instant she enters the room. "Mrs Hudson, under what circumstances would you admit an unexpected stranger to your home?"

One of the consequences of having known Sherlock for as long as she has is that Mrs Hudson rarely expresses surprise at anything he says. She gives this a moment's consideration. "I'm hardly a good example of the average single woman, if you're looking for a typical response, you know. People show up here at all hours looking for you boys, and there are some very strange ones."

"But you don't admit them to your home," Sherlock points out.

"Yes, of course. You're right. This would be someone asking to come into my flat. Someone unexpected, so not a workman I've called." She pauses. "It would depend on who it was, and what they wanted. A policeman would qualify, I think. Honestly, I can't think of anyone else."

Sherlock nods as if this is the answer he expected. "Would you demand identification?"

"If he were in uniform, and if he had a believable reason, probably not." She frowns. "That seems a little unwise, now that I think about it."

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson." Sherlock turns back to the wall. She is dismissed.

Mrs Hudson gives John a bemused look, and returns to her flat.

John mulls this over for a moment. "You think the killer presented himself as a policeman?"

"No, I think he IS a policeman," Sherlock says without turning around.

"Based on WHAT?" Even for Sherlock, this is out of the blue.

Sherlock turns to the wall, gesturing back and forth across the expanse of string-connected photos and text and scribbled notes that is as opaque to John as every one of the damned things always is. "Masquerading as policeman would gain him access to all but the most cautious woman's home, especially if he has a persuasive story to tell. It would also give him access to the investigation. The killings lack the sensational aspects that would provide notoriety for a serial killer looking for fame. They're passionless executions. Means to an end. The victims lived low risk lives. They did nothing that would have exposed them to a random psychopath. Their homes were locked and in safe areas, and they allowed their killer to get close enough to inject them with a fatal dose of insulin without a struggle. My working hypothesis is that the killer is setting himself up to be the hero and solve the case by placing blame on a target whom he has already selected. An actual policeman would have knowledge of criminal candidates in the area and would have at least one in mind. It's likely that he has taken evidence from the scenes with which to implicate the chosen target."

John takes a moment to digest this. "You think that whoever solves the murders will actually be the murderer himself?"

"Yes, but we can hardly afford to wait for him to reveal himself. He has to commit another murder so he can plant the 'clues' he has engineered to implicate his target suspect."

John gives his head a shake to clear it, but it doesn't help. "You're basing all of this on Mrs Hudson saying she would let a policeman into her flat? That's a massive leap, even for you. There are 23 Murder Investigation Teams in London. Even with close to half of the member being women, it's a big suspect pool. Or are you not ruling out women?"

"Did you see anything about the murder that rules out a woman being the killer?"

Now that John thinks about it, the killer being a woman could make sense. "But the vast majority of serial killers are men."

"But not all," Sherlock replies, pulling out his phone.

From what John can gather hearing only Sherlock's side of the conversation, Lestrade finds Sherlock's theory as surprising as John does.

"I do not consider all of your officers idiots," Sherlock says at one point. "I would hardly suspect one of them being capable of these murders, if that were the case."

John supposes it's a compliment, of sorts. The teams should be flattered.

Sherlock concludes with a demand. "We will meet you in your office in an hour to review the personnel files. Both men and woman, Lestrade." He ends the call and tucks the phone into the inside pocket of his coat.

"I don't think he's allowed to let you look at confidential personnel files, Sherlock, no matter how nicely you ask."

"If he wants to catch the killer, he will find a way."

John has learned over the years that the better approach to disagreeing with Sherlock is to save your breath and wait for him to sort it out on his own. While there is always the possibility that he's right this time, too, the likelihood seems very low. Sherlock has never spent any time with the police on the Murder Investigation Teams outside of work, but John has. He's gone out of his way, in fact, to socialize in an effort make inroads where Sherlock remains bent on burning bridges. Whatever progress he's made is bound to be undone if Sherlock starts interrogating the lot of them for serial murder.

Unless he turns out to be right, of course.

Lestrade hasn't even had time to hang up his coat when Sherlock and John walk into his office. Not surprisingly, the surface of his desk is noticeably absent the requested stack of personnel folders. Sherlock starts in before the man can open his mouth.

"I see you're planning to wait until the next body turns up."

Greg drops wearily into his chair. "Sit down, Sherlock."

Surprisingly, Sherlock complies.

"First, I'm glad you've decided to agree with me that we're looking for a serial killer," Greg holds up a hand when Sherlock starts to interrupt, "but I think you're way off track with this theory. And I couldn't give you the personnel files, even if I wanted to. What would do you think they'd tell you anyway?"

Sherlock is silent for a moment. "The personnel files include psychological testing."

Lestrade sighs. "You're not going to find suspicious psych results on anyone who was accepted to the force."

Sherlock pointedly rolls his eyes. "Standard methods of analysis only detect the obvious. If there is a true sociopath on the force, I'm the only one who can identify him. Or her. We also need to establish who was on duty at the times of the murders."

Greg chews his lip for a moment. "I've worked with you long enough to know that ignoring even the craziest theory can be a mistake. I can't give you what you want, but I can go through the records myself to see who was off -duty when the women were killed. If I turn up any possibilities, I'll at least let you know the what, if not the who." He sits back. "Now if you're going to read me the riot act, please close the door."

Sherlock gets to his feet. "The next murder could be prevented if we knew who to watch. Remember that when you find the body." He walks out of the office without another word.

Lestrade rubs both hands over his face and exhales a weary sigh. He looks at John. "Do you think he's right?"

John hesitates. "I honestly don't know."

Greg looks thoughtfully at Sherlock's vacant chair. "He's always made it clear that he thinks the worst of my officers, and the feeling is very much mutual. I'd hate to think he might be letting that colour his judgment."

John shakes his head firmly. "Not a chance, Greg. If he comes up with a suspect, it will be based on evidence, not spite. You know him better than that."

Greg blows out a long breath. "I'm not saying he would do it consciously, but he's got blind spots like the rest of us. Genius or not, he's still human."

"I can't argue with that," John tells him. "But I'm pretty sure Sherlock would."

Sherlock has nothing to say on the way back to Baker Street, and John lets him sulk. As soon as they walk into the flat, Sherlock goes to work on the evidence wall. John watches him for a moment. "Editing?"

Sherlock turns to look at him. "Something like that."

John shrugs and wanders out to the kitchen. The sink is overflowing with dirty dishes and pots, and it takes him nearly an hour to tidy up. When he heads back to the sitting room, he glances up at the wall to see what Sherlock has accomplished, and stops in his tracks. The wall above the sofa is now completely bare. Sherlock is stretched out on the sofa, fingers steepled against pursed lips.

"Sherlock, what did you with it all?" And then he glances to his left and sees the original envelopes Greg sent the case files in stacked next to Sherlock's closed laptop. They are refilled to capacity. "You're sending it all back?"

Sherlock sighs. "There's no point cluttering the wall with evidence for a case Lestrade will not allow me to work."

John hasn't seen Sherlock in a proper sulk for some time, but he's certainly in one now. "Greg thinks you're letting your opinion of the police bias your judgment."

Sherlock scoffs. "Of course, he does."

John walks over to the sofa. "I told him he was wrong. That you'd never let that happen."

Sherlock glances up at him. "Thank you, John."

"I'm revising my opinion."

Sherlock sits up and swings his feet to the floor. "The next victim has less than two months to live."

"Then maybe you should keep looking for the man who plans to kill her."

"As soon as Lestrade stops blocking every avenue of investigation, I will. Contrary to popular belief, I am not clairvoyant."

"I know you're not going to let a murderer run free out of spite, Sherlock. If you really can't move forward without the personnel files, why don't you just ask Mycroft to pull some strings? Surely, he -"

Sherlock jumps up from the sofa with such energy that John takes a step backward and nearly trips. "There is no circumstance on earth or anywhere else that would induce me to ask Mycroft for the time of day, let alone anything that might give license for him to ask a favour in return."

A veteran of the Holmes brothers' wars, John treads carefully. "Oh? Did something happen?"

"Nothing worth mentioning," Sherlock huffs, then contradicts that comment by mentioning, in excruciating detail, how a recent recreational hack (purely for exercise, Sherlock insists) into a certain MI5 database managed to draw fire from the few members of government who outrank Mycroft, resulting in a demand by said superiors for certain concessions in lieu of the list of legal consequences they outlined as incentive.

When Sherlock exhausts his narrative, John ventures, "Well, if you can hack into MI5, it shouldn't be much of a challenge to get what you want from Scotland Yard."

Sherlock plops back onto the couch. "About those concessions..."

It seems Sherlock's online access is under surveillance. Temporarily.

John tries another tack. "Not wanting to press your luck with MI5, I get that. But I can't believe you're going to let Lestrade's little roadblock hang you up."

Sherlock settles back and closes his eyes. "The case files are here. You are welcome to look for an alternate route."

John smiles. Sherlock's off-hand tone takes not one whit of pleasure away from the fact that he's just asked for John's help.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

John spends the next few days reading the two case files, including the additional notes that Lestrade sends over, and he's leaning more and more toward the murders being unrelated. There are two interviews in the second case that suggest the victim may have been using insulin to lose weight. Neither of the witnesses said this outright, but the possibility is there. The overdose could have been accidental, and the location of the injection in her thigh, rather than being a link to the first victim, was simply the most common location for a right handed person helping her, as he believes may have been the case.

The first case still looks like murder, but an isolated instance. No suspects have been identified, but unlike the second victim, she at least seemed to have dated occasionally, although she had never introduced a date to her small circle of girlfriends. The police were out of leads almost from the start.

John chooses his moment to share his new theory with Sherlock. They are at the rarely-cleared kitchen table eating takeaway fish and chips after a relatively calm day during which Sherlock spent hours on his laptop while John finished his mind-candy detective novel. It's time to stir the pot.

"What if the murders really are unrelated?" John begins.

"Then I would be wrong," Sherlock replies in a tone that dismisses the possibility outright.

"Seriously, there are a couple of interviews with her friends that you haven't seen. I-"

"I read the interviews," Sherlock cuts him off. "Speculation is not evidence, and the comments of the victim's self-appointed 'friends' do not even rise to that level."

John crosses his arms. "You don't know what I was about to say."

Sherlock picks up his empty wrapper and crumples it into a ball as he answers, "You think the murders are unrelated, and you attribute the second to a well-intentioned effort by the victim's friends to help her lose weight." He tosses the paper at the bin and misses. "There is nothing that suggests the victim was unhappy with her appearance, or that she would have consented to such a risk to change it. Not everyone yearns to look like a film star, John."

This is a side of Sherlock that none of his detractors would believe: his fierce defence of those who are different. This victim's slender friends couldn't imagine that she was fine with her own body size, and assumed she would do anything to be like them. John had read the transcript of those comments and thought they were meant to be helpful, but Sherlock saw sniping self-important busybodies. Sherlock's interpretation is on the side of the victim, as it always has been.

"I think you may be right," John says, and drops the subject.

* * *

John's shifts at the clinic double for the next few weeks, thanks to a cluster of overlapping holiday schedules. Lestrade completes his review of the time records without turning up a single potential candidate, and the case goes stagnant. The deadline Sherlock set for the next murder comes and goes uneventfully. A second day passes. And then another.

On the morning of Thursday, September 8th , John is eating a piece of toast over the kitchen sink when he hears Sherlock's mobile ringing. A moment later, Sherlock comes out of the bathroom, pulling on his jacket. "They've just found the third victim."

John expects to hear an 'I told you so', but Sherlock says nothing more for the entire taxi ride to the scene.

The victim is 24 year old Lisa Cooper. Her flat is the upper half of a semi-detached house that had originally been a single family dwelling. There is a separate bedroom and ensuite bath, and the remaining space is a single large room with an efficiency kitchen along one wall. It is sunny and pleasant, and extremely tidy. The body was found lying in bed with the sheet pulled up under her chin. Her pupils, John soon finds, are widely dilated. The corneas are clouded over, and the condition of the rest of the body tells him that this murder most likely took place close to the original deadline. The first two victims were found within hours of being killed, but this woman has been dead for a day or so longer. There is another difference with this victim, one that John points out to Sherlock and Greg. "These look like injection marks," he points to two tiny red dots, one on either side of the victim's neck. "There's also one in her left thigh where we would expect to find it.

"Into the jugular," Sherlock notes. "Possibly she wasn't responding quickly enough to the initial dose."

"There's no sign that she struggled at all," Greg observes. "Maybe they're not injections?"

It's hard to imagine the victim sitting still for three forced injections, but she seems to have done just that. There is no sign of a struggle anywhere. No indication of a forced entry. The flat is neat as a pin throughout, and the victim herself looks peacefully asleep. It all echoes the eerie calm shown in photos of the two previous crime scenes.

"How can you commit a murder and not disturb a damned thing in the flat?" Lestrade says, as if reading his mind. "Her boyfriend hasn't been able to reach her for the past two days. He had the landlady let him in, and they found her."

"Which would make him a prime suspect," Sherlock comments. "I need to interview him."

Lestrade purses his lips and looks down for a moment.

Sherlock lifts an eyebrow. "Problem?"

Greg squares his shoulders. "He's a Detective Sergeant on another MIT-"

"Is this where I say 'I told you so'?" Sherlock cuts in.

"And he has an alibi," Greg completes his interrupted statement.

"For what, exactly? The time of death hasn't even been established." Sherlock looks inquiringly at John.

"A range of a few days is the best I can do without a post mortem," John agrees.

Lestrade's face is the image of grim determination. "He's been on duty every day for the past week. And this is clearly the work of the same man who killed the first two women. Looking at Robbins for this murder would make him a psychopath who killed two total strangers, and then his own girlfriend." He shakes his head. "It's not him."

"Or, it could be that he killed the first two to make it look like a serial killer. To throw suspicion away from himself," John adds, and earns a brief smile of approval from Sherlock.

"Exactly," Sherlock adds. "I need to interview him. Is he here?"

"He went out to get some air." Greg replies with an air of resignation. "And we are not going to grill him here with his girlfriend's body in the next room. I'll take him back to my office when we're finished up here."

"We will meet you there. Text me," Sherlock tells him, and heads for the door.

Greg looks back toward the victim's bedroom. "If he was right all along..."

"Even if he was, Greg, you did everything you could," John tells him, and means it.

Sherlock and John stop to speak with the landlady on their way out. She's still visibly upset, but willing to answer questions for what is probably the umpteenth time this morning. The three of them sit at her kitchen table with cups of instant brew coffee that smells a lot better than it tastes, but John is happy for the caffeine.

"Lisa is- _was_ a very nice girl," the woman, who introduced herself as Irene Miller, tells them. She reminds John of Mrs Hudson, but a few years younger and about twenty pounds heavier. "Never a moment's trouble. I just can't believe this." She dabs at her nose with a wadded tissue.

"How long had she lived here?" Sherlock asks with surprising gentleness. Possibly she reminds him of Mrs Hudson, too.

"Just about four years now. I wish I had a dozen like her, to be honest. Never a peep out of her. Quiet as a mouse. So tidy. Always on time with the rent."

"Did you know her boyfriend? Mr Robbins?" Sherlock asks.

She nods and dabs her nose again. "Michael? Of course. I introduced them, in a way. He was here to take a report about my car being stolen, and he came in to have tea with me. Lisa came down to give me her rent payment, and they just seemed to hit it off right away."

"When was this?"

She squints, remembering. "The end of May, I think." She nods. "Yes, she was bringing her June rent."

"So, they hadn't known each other very long," Sherlock gives John a look that says this is exactly what he expected to hear.

John has a question. "When he asked you to let him into the flat this morning, did he say why he was so concerned? Had you noticed anything before that?"

"Well, he didn't actually come to my door. I heard him pounding on her door and went up to see what the problem was. I had to come back down here to find the key. It took some time, and I think he already had called the police before we even got inside."

John and Sherlock exchange a look. Sherlock asks, "Did you mention this to any of the officers who spoke with you?"

She shakes her head. "No one has asked me about that. I never thought about it until just now, to be honest." Her expression darkens. "You can't possibly think Michael had anything to do with this, surely!" She looks from Sherlock to John, and her back stiffens. "I don't think I should say anything more."

Sherlock's gaze is direct. "Mrs Miller, did you know Michael before your car was stolen?"

"What earthly difference can that possibly make?" She's getting angry. "I would like you to leave now, please." She pushes back her chair and stands up.

John and Sherlock get to their feet. "We'll show ourselves out," Sherlock tells her. Mrs Miller follows them and closes the door firmly behind them.

They take a taxi to New Scotland Yard to wait for Lestrade but find that he's beat them to his office, having left sometime during their interview with Mrs Miller. He looks like a man braced for an argument.

Sherlock opens with, "He called for assistance before he found the body."

Lestrade crosses his arms. "Yeah, he told me that. He meant to call for medical assistance and got PCs instead."

John takes a seat, but Sherlock stands behind the other chair with his hands resting on the back of it. "Or he wanted a witness to him finding the body. He barely knew her, did he tell you that? Being panicked enough to break into her flat seems a bit extreme for someone only out of contact for a day or two."

"He said she wasn't feeling well the last time they spoke," Greg explains. "Said he was worried that she might have taken a bad turn and couldn't get to the phone."

Sherlock comes round the chair and sits. "The victim's landlady is very protective of him, incidentally. She stopped talking as soon as she realized where the questions might lead."

Greg frowns. "And yet it sounds like she said more to you than to any of the other officers who interviewed her."

Sherlock scoffs. "Does that surprise you? Do you really think they would follow a line of questioning that could lead to one of their colleagues? Yet another reason to let me talk to Robbins first."

"Fine," Greg says, and stands up. "He's in an interrogation room. I asked him if he wanted a solicitor, and he declined. I'll be watching, so keep in mind you're talking to an officer with a clean record who is fully cooperating with this inquiry, and who has just lost someone he cared about." He gives John a look that asks for help keeping Sherlock in line.

As if that's ever worked.

Michael Robbins is in uniform, seated at the table facing the one-way mirror in the interrogation room. He looks up when they enter and take the seats on the opposite side of the table.

There is a thin folder in the centre of the table which Greg has told them contains the text of Robbins' statement. John watches Robbins' expressions as Sherlock asks most of the same questions the man has already answered in the statement. John follows along in the text, as is the routine he and Sherlock have developed over the years, looking for discrepancies in the suspect's responses compared to earlier statements. So far, everything lines up, but then it's only been a few hours. Hardly long enough to forget even an elaborate lie.

Robbins is composed and appears eager to cooperate, just as Greg had said. He is not pretending to be grief-stricken, which would ring false after such a short relationship.

"Why were you trying to reach the victim this morning?" Sherlock asks another of the questions Robbins has already answered.

"It wasn't just this morning," Robbins replies. "I had been texting and calling since Monday. We were supposed to meet for drinks after my shift, and she never showed."

"That never happened before?" Sherlock asks.

"Well, no. She was very punctual."

John finds the response a little stilted and distant, under the circumstances, and Sherlock apparently agrees, going by his next question.

"Punctual. I might use that term for my landlady. Not someone with whom I was intimate. Were you on intimate terms with the victim, Mr Robbins?"

Robbins' expression hardens. "The victim has a name, Mr Holmes. Yes, Lisa and I were on intimate terms, but we were still getting to know one another. You'll have to forgive my clumsy wording. I'm not an Oxford graduate, after all." There is an audible sneer in that last bit.

"It doesn't take an Oxford graduate to recognize the obvious suspect in a case where a murder victim's lover is the one to find the body, would you agree?"

John hears a tap on the glass behind them and can picture Greg bristling at this near-accusation. Sherlock ignores the warning.

"Of course I know I'm the logical point to start with. I expected to be questioned, but this is personal for you, isn't it? I'm a policeman, therefore I'm worse than useless and a viable suspect in a triple murder? While you're wasting your time on me, the real killer is out there looking for his next victim."

Sherlock ignores the accusation and asks a new question. "Had you met any of Miss Cooper's friends? Is there someone who might know if she was worried about anything? Or about anyone?"

His challenge having been rebuffed, Robbins sags back in his chair. "She never introduced me to anyone. Never mentioned friends at all, actually." He takes a deep breath. "Look, if there's nothing else right now, I'd like to go home. This is all starting to hit me."

Sherlock pushes back his chair. "That will be all for now." He stands up, and walks out of the room.

John gets to his feet, thanks Robbins for his cooperation, and follows Sherlock into the hall. Sherlock, however, is nowhere to be seen. Instead, John finds Greg standing just outside the adjacent observation room door, hands on his hips, staring at the closed elevator doors at the end of the hall. He turns to face John. "Does he really believe Robbins did it?" Greg asks with a rising tone of disbelief.

John chooses his words. "I would say he has not ruled him out entirely."

Greg shakes his head. "Robbins is right. We have to do whatever it takes to make Sherlock see that he's after the wrong man before another woman dies."

John studies him for a moment. "Are you one hundred percent certain that he couldn't have done it?"

"All three murders? One hundred percent. Even if it was just his girlfriend, it would be at least 85 percent."

John's own level of certainty is lower than Greg's, but he has substantially more confidence in Greg's judgment than Sherlock does right now. "I'll do what I can."

* * *

Barts Hospital Morgue

Thursday, September 8

Molly doesn't normally mind working with Sherlock peering over her shoulder, but today is an exception. He's actually breathing down her neck which is disconcerting on several levels. Not only did he scrutinize every inch of this victim's body before he allowed her to begin the post mortem, he is now closely observing the internal examination, even down to following Molly as she carries each organ to the scales.

Thankfully, John seems to have noticed her discomfort and has been trying gamely to draw him into a debate with Lestrade.

When she takes a step to her right and actually trips over his shoe, her temper flares. "Sherlock, is there something in particular you're looking for? I can barely move with you right behind me!"

Instead of backing off, he leans directly over her shoulder, actually nudging her out of the way. "Why does she smell of formalin?"

Molly stares at him for a moment, then leans down over the open chest cavity and sniffs. "Oh my god, you're right!" She smells it now, disguised by the 48 plus hours of decomposition, but clearly there. "That could explain the additional injection sites!" They had found the expected injection mark in the left thigh, but there were four others, two in the groin and one over each jugular. John had mentioned the ones in the neck, but he obviously had not seen the other two.

"What?!" John strides to the table and sniffs for himself. "How in hell...?"

Lestrade has joined them, looking baffled. "What's he on about?"

"Embalming fluid, Lestrade," Sherlock sounds triumphant for reasons John can't fathom. "The killer must have returned to the scene when she wasn't found soon enough. He tried to preserve the body!"

Greg looks no less confused. "What? Why?"

"The body wasn't found right away. He couldn't have known that would happen, so the formalin was injected the next day, or later. But how did he get back in without being seen?" Sherlock is pacing back and forth along the table. "He must have taken the victim's flat key and used it to return without the landlady knowing about it. We need to recheck the other victims' effects to see if their flat keys were missing. This killer planned ahead. Every detail. But why? The bodies were all intended to be found. Why..." He stops pacing. "I need to look at the files." And out the door he goes.

Greg turns to John. "What just happened?"

"Something's shifted him off Robbins," John translates.

"Yeah, I got that part. But what?"

"I'm about to find out." John turns and hurries after Sherlock.

Molly turns back to the body on her table. "I'm so used to the smell, it didn't register."

Greg comes around to the other side, facing Molly. "Would injecting the body with whatever he's talking about actually slow the process?"

She considers it. "It's not likely to have done anything at all. Embalming is an involved process that requires draining the blood, which didn't happen here. He may have thought it would help. I can't think of any other reason to inject her with it."

"Do you think you could have missed finding it in the other two victims?" Greg asks.

Molly shakes her head firmly. "There was no decomposition in either victim. They were found within a few hours of death. No decomposition smell to disguise the formalin. I would definitely have noticed. And there was only one injection in each of the first two bodies."

"Who would even know to use something like that? A funeral home employee?"

"They use formulations that include formalin, but they would certainly have it on hand. So would any lab that handles tissue samples." She pauses. "Like a forensics lab."

Greg rolls his eyes. "Oh, lord, don't point that out to Sherlock or we'll be back on Robbins."

"But would Robbins have access to the forensics lab?" She doubts it, from what she's seen. The facility is a trove of evidence, not to mention potential biohazards, and security is tight.

"No reason he would, but I'll check. And I was joking about Sherlock. He won't need us to tell him that a forensic lab could be a source." He starts for the door. "I'll come by tomorrow for your report. Let me know if anything else turns up." He pauses halfway out the door and looks back at her. "Don't tell him anyway." He winks, and lets the door close behind him.

Molly is still smiling when she turns back to the table, intending to finish up, but is startled to find her mortuary assistant standing on the other side where Greg had been a few seconds ago. Her hand goes involuntarily to her heart. The adrenaline rush is a little dizzying. "Steven, you scared me!" There's no point asking how he got in here without her hearing him. It's his defining characteristic, being so cat-footed that she's often teased him that he would have a great career as a burglar. "I was just about to call you."

Steven Basil is not much taller than she is, but quite strong. An avid bodybuilder, he works a second job at a local fitness centre as a personal trainer. His physical strength has been a nice addition to his flawless work performance this past year and a half. He's told her that he's saving to open his own fitness centre but jokes that it will take him so long that she'll probably retire before can manage it. He's never mentioned a girlfriend, or a boyfriend, either of which she would think he'd have in abundance. She finds him exceptionally cute, although the blue eyes and fair colouring are not her taste.

Steven smiles, displaying his perfect teeth. "I can read your mind, don't you know? Want me to finish up for you? I've nothing on at the gym tonight."

"You _did_ read my mind! Yes, thank you. I need to finish my notes and get my report ready for Inspector Lestrade in the morning."

Steven's expression slips into pity as he looks down at the young woman on the table. "What is wrong with people these days? Who could look at that face and think, 'you need to die'?" He looks over at Molly. "I don't understand this world."

He often sounds to her like a much older person. This is one of those times. "It never gets any easier. Try not to let it get to you."

"Has that ever worked for you?"

She smiles sadly. "I'm a poor example. You can do better."

"Like your friend, Sherlock? This stuff doesn't seem to come near touching him," he says, then quickly adds, "Sorry, I didn't mean to sound critical, but I've heard things."

She's used to people taking shots at Sherlock, but hearing it from someone she likes is especially disappointing. "It's wrong to judge people, especially based on gossip." She heads for the door. "I'll be in my office for a few more hours, if you need me."

When she returns to the mortuary to close up at five, it's neat as a pin and there's a note taped to the empty table where Lisa Cooper's body had been.

_ I'm sorry if I offended you. I didn't mean anything by it. - Steven_

Molly tucks the note into her pocket and turns out the lights.

She calls Sherlock when she gets home to share a new detail that she discovered while making her report for Lestrade. Her call goes to voicemail, so she sends him a text.

Sherlock has been pacing between the fireplace and the coffee table since they got back to Baker Street. John seems to have touched off a powder keg of deductions when he asked Sherlock to explain the revelation that had sent him sprinting out of the mortuary.

"The third body not being found right away ruined the pattern. That's why he took the risk of going back to the scene."

John shakes his head. "And that rules out Robbins how?"

Sherlock stops pacing. "The time between murders is too precise to be coincidence. If the time lapse is important to the killer, he'd never willingly allow the third body to remain undiscovered unless he didn't know for certain that it hadn't been found. Robbins is a policeman who would routinely receive information on new cases. He would have known the next day that the body had not been found, and he would not have waited two days to stage its discovery."

John picks up the thread, "And if the killer is a civilian, he would have to wait for it to be reported in the news media. When there was no report, he couldn't be sure whether the body wasn't found yet, or if the media just hadn't been informed, so he waited a day or two, and then went back to the scene with the formalin, thinking he could preserve the body until it was found."

Sherlock frowns. "But if he wanted the body to be found, why attempt to delay decomposition? The smell would draw attention to it without him doing anything that would risk exposing himself."

John puffs his cheeks with frustration. "Maybe he was trying to alter the estimated time of death."

"For what purpose? To protect an alibi?" Sherlock's phone pings a text notification, and he pulls it out of his inside pocket. "Molly has news," he says as he taps the screen. He puts the call on speaker when Molly answers. "John is here with me. What do you have for us?"

"Oh, hello, John," Molly replies.

John can hear the smile in her voice. "Hi, Molly."

Sherlock rolls his eyes heavenward. "What do you have, Molly?"

"It's not much, really, but I thought it was interesting. Lisa Cooper had no living relatives and neither did the other two victims. I don't know the statistics, but that seems a little unlikely to me."

Sherlock looks at John, who shrugs. "How is this part of the post mortem investigation?"

"We have a limited amount of time to locate a relative to claim a body," Molly tells them. "After the post mortem and coroner's inquest, we have sixty days. If no one is located, we release the body to the local council for disposition."

"The same amount of time between murders, except for the third one, who missed the deadline by three days." Sherlock gives John a significant look.

"Does this help with the case?" Molly sounds hopeful.

"You may have just answered a question we've been wrestling with," John replies.

Sherlock picks up the phone and switches off the speaker. "Yes, thank you, Molly. I'll get a copy of your report in the morning." He ends the call and strides over to consult his evidence wall.

"The time lapse between murders could be related to something else entirely," Sherlock begins, "but this is the first potential correlation we've found. If the morgue time limit is what's driving the killer's choice of murder dates, it would mean the he knew about the procedure. Did _you_ know there was a specific time limit?"

"No," John admits.

"Nor did I, not until Molly told us."

"But the rule only applies to unclaimed bodies where the next of kin can't be found," John points out. "How in hell could he manage to only kill women who fit that category? Is that even something that can be looked up?"

"That is an excellent question," Sherlock admits. He moves to the desk ad flips open his laptop. Almost an hour later, he's still typing. "John, come look at this."

John walks over and reads over Sherlock's shoulder. " ?"

"You gave me the idea. You can indeed look up relatives, if you have a starting point and a collection of family trees to search. This is one of the most popular genealogy websites." Sherlock switches to the profile information for the current tree. "The contact is Lisa Cooper who was maintaining the tree." He switches back to the tree and scrolls down to the root entry. "Gender and birth year are the only details listed for living people. She is the owner, and the root of the tree. You can see that every person shown above her is deceased."

"Looks as though she's either from a very small family, or she just never got round to finishing her research." John comments. "It only goes back as far as her great-grandparents." His own tree would reach a bit farther, but not much. He doubts Harry would be able to name as many relatives as John could do. "Maybe she had no one left to ask for the information."

"My mother has a tediously long list," Sherlock mutters.

John has no doubt. He's visited Sherlock's ancestral home. Sections of the main house are more than 400 years old, and there is a portrait hall filled with very grand oil paintings of family members going back even farther than that. Sherlock had invited John to a weekend hunt on the grounds, and that pretty much says all one needs to know about the size and scope of the place.

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock has confirmed that the second victim had also been in the process of researching her family on the same website, and had no living relatives. It takes a bit longer to find the third on a different website. "All three are the same. No living relatives."

"That can't be coincidence."

Sherlock agrees. "It can't be coincidence that all three shared the very specific factor of being without next of kin, and that they all maintained genealogy web pages that would provide that information to their killer. But it doesn't tell us why it mattered to him." He's up and pacing again. "What are the consequences of dying without relatives to claim your body? What practical benefit could there possibly be for a killer to choose victims based on that fact?"

John has personal experience with this question, thanks to an alcoholic father who died nearly a year before John and Harry found out about it. "If someone dies without a will, and no relatives can be located, the local council takes control of whatever assets the victim had, uses them to settle accounts, and buries or cremates the remains." John's father is in an urn buried in a city cemetery in Manchester. Harry has been there to visit. John has not.

Sherlock rakes both hands through his hair in frustration. "But what does it matter? Why would the killer care how long the bodies are kept before burial?"

"What if the bodies have nothing to do with it?" John wonders aloud, then warms to the idea. "What if he chooses women who won't leave grieving relatives behind?"

Sherlock turns slowly and looks at him. "That's a very interesting thought, John." He is silent for a long moment. "Empathy for survivors would not be a factor, however. We're talking about a killer whose defining characteristic would be a total lack of that quality. His motivation would be practical. A benefit to him personally. Perhaps a policeman who is familiar with the process of notifying a victim's surviving family. Relatives can be a nuisance, clamouring for a resolution before he's ready to spring his chosen suspect."

"You're back to thinking it's Robbins?" John's head is swimming with the changes in direction.

"It's your theory John. Which way would you say the evidence is leaning?"

John shakes his head. "The needle is tipping back and forth like a bloody metronome. I honestly don't know."

Sherlock smiles. "At least we're finally on the same page."

"Speaking of pages, we need to let Greg know what you found with the genealogy site."

"I sent a text."

Of course.

Sherlock gets his copy of Molly's post mortem report on the latest victim via messenger just before noon the following day. There is a memo attached with Molly's handwritten notes on her analysis of the blood samples from the two previous victims confirming the absence of formalin.

"What about the flat keys for all of the victims," John asks, reading the report over Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock picks up his mobile and makes a call to Lestrade. The call is brief. "The two previous victims' possessions have been disposed of with no note made of the flat keys. The key for Lisa Cooper has not been located. Lestrade is having a search conducted for it."

"So even if we establish that it's missing, since we don't know about the other two, it doesn't really tell us anything."

Sherlock agrees, but for a reason John hasn't considered. "She could have given a key to Robbins. He wouldn't have needed to steal her key to re-enter the flat if he already had one of his own."

"How would he have got his hands on the formalin, let alone know how to use it?"

Sherlock dismisses this with a wave. "I'm sure it's available online. Almost anything is, if you know where to look. Again, who better than a policeman to find a source? As to how it's used, I'm sure that's online as well. Probably in video form."

"Have you looked, or are you assuming?"

Sherlock gestures John toward the laptop. "Help yourself."

John takes up the challenge and quickly finds that Sherlock has guessed correctly. Both access to formalin, and details about its use, are easily available. John closes the laptop and sits back. "Okay, so he could get the formalin and find how to use it. Anyone with internet access could do the same. We still don't know why." He grimaces. "And I am not looking forward to explaining any of this to Greg."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Friday, September 9th

4:00 pm

Greg isn't sure which part of this mess is worse: finding that one of his men is looking more and more like a viable suspect in a triple murder case, or that Sherlock will see it as proof that he's been right about the entire staff from the start.

Robbins just left Greg's office after an increasingly tense fifteen minute interview. Greg was able to establish that Robbins was not on duty for either of the first two murders and can't prove where he was at the designated times. While he _was_ on duty on the night it's believed that the third victim was killed, he was out of contact for a two hour span during which he says he was following a man who he thought might be stalking women at a pub. While his car's plates had been picked up by traffic cameras around the right time, there were no viable images to confirm he had been the driver. It was not a pub where Robbins is known, and he was making an active effort not to be noticed, he said, for obvious reasons, so no one in the place could verify he'd been there either.

But the final two questions, posed on Sherlock's behalf, seemed to be the final straw for Robbins. He vehemently denied returning to Cooper's flat since the night her body was found, or ever having a key to her flat, with or without her permission. Robbins had made it clear at this point that his voluntary cooperation was over.

The evidence against the man is entirely circumstantial and strongly counterbalanced by his reputation with his colleagues and supervisors. Even if Greg were convinced of Robbins' guilt, which he is not, no prosecutor would even consider taking the case with what they have now.

The family tree websites that Sherlock discovered could be the first solid lead they've had on this case, but it's still a long way from evidence. Evidence would be a single IP address that appears in the list of visitors to all three victims' sites. Whoever that IP address links back to would almost have to be the killer, or someone who knows him. Greg has made the formal request for the information, but it's going to take time to get results. IP addresses have become a routine part of many crime investigations, and resources are limited. Greg's request has many others ahead of it.

Sherlock and John are on their way to his office expecting to interview Robbins again, and Greg hasn't bothered to stop them. He knows that Sherlock would just come anyway in order to voice his displeasure.

And with that thought still in mind, Greg looks up to see Sherlock and John approaching his door.

He waits until they're seated before he breaks the bad news. "He's gone, Sherlock, and he won't be back without his solicitor."

Sherlock dismisses that with a wave. "I'm not the police. There's no reason he can't talk to me without his solicitor."

"Nice try, but you know better than that. The two questions you had me ask were what touched him off, incidentally. He categorically denies returning to the flat, or ever having a key."

"Of course, he does. Did you believe him?" Sherlock asks.

Greg hesitates, and Sherlock pounces, "You did not, and you now agree he's the prime suspect."

"He's been the only suspect all along, just not a very good one," Greg says evenly. "This makes him a bit more likely, but nothing else has changed. Without a link to actual evidence, there will be no charges."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "I _gave_ you the evidence. Find the IP address that visited all three sites, and you'll have your proof."

"The request is in process," Greg says without much hope that it will end the discussion.

"And it's going to take time," Sherlock finishes the thought. "At least keep Robbins under surveillance in the interim."

Greg meets Sherlock's steady gaze. "You think he killed two strangers to hide the murder of his girlfriend, and now you think he's going to kill someone else...why? To throw us off the scent?"

"I don't think we can assume that the first two murders were only camouflage. He may have had a relationship with them that we haven't uncovered."

"Then uncover it, and prove your bloody point." Greg's exasperation is showing. "But don't close off your options, Sherlock. If you focus on Robbins and it turns out to be someone else... "

"I will follow the evidence wherever it leads so long as you're willing to do the same." He's up and out the door before Greg can answer.

John shrugs and gets to his feet. "The good news is that we have time, whether it's Robbins or not. If the killer sticks to the same time frames. He's not due to kill anyone for another two months."

"Thank heaven for small favours."

Irene Miller's home

Friday, September 9th, 5:00 pm

She's just switched on the radio in the kitchen when she hears a knock, and for a moment thinks it's part of the news broadcast. Then it comes again and she knows it's her front door, and hurries out to answer. "Michael! Come in, come in." She is pleased but surprised and steps back to swing the door wide to admit him. "Do you have time for tea and some biscuits? I've just finished a batch of your favourites."

"Thanks, that sounds great. I'm not interrupting anything?" He pauses in the entry, one eyebrow lifted in inquiry.

"Of course not. Come out to the kitchen and I'll start the kettle."

As she fusses with the preparations, Michael settles into a chair at the kitchen table. He seems subdued to her, but that's understandable, after all that's happened. As she's searching for something to say, Michael breaks the silence himself.

"I'm sorry, I should have rung you instead of just appearing at your door."

She places a plate of biscuits on the table and returns to the worktop to wait for the kettle. "I'm always happy to see you, you know that."

He shifts his gaze to the window for a moment, then looks up at her. "I found out this afternoon that I'm suspected of killing Lisa."

"I knew it!" she says with a rush of anger. "You must get a solicitor at once, Michael. You can't allow this to go on a moment longer. It's outrageous!" She is beside herself with sudden fury.

Michael's apologetic demeanour has changed to alarm. "What do you mean? Has someone talked with you?"

She lifts her hands and makes a wide gesture, "Someone? Everyone's been here asking questions, but no one else was quite so direct as that tall young man the first night. He all but said he thought you did it and I tossed him right out. Him and his friend." She huffs in disgust and turns to deal with the kettle which has chosen this moment to boil.

"Did this young give a name?" Michael asks.

Irene thinks for a moment, then turns round to face him. "Now that you ask, no he didn't." This adds to her irritation. "I will call that inspector Lestrade and ask! For all I know, it was one of those reporters pretending to be someone important. Imagine! Taking advantage of me because I was upset!"

"I would rather you didn't," Michael tells her. "That's part of the favour I came to ask."

She brings their tea to the table and sits down across from him. "What do you need me to do?"

"I need you to help me find the real killer. The police have their sights trained on me, and they'll be no help identifying the right man. As long as I'm free to do it, I've got to do the investigating myself."

"Michael, you know I'll do anything I can, but I can't imagine what that would be."

"Think very hard. Is there anyone who's been here over the past couple of months, other than me of course, who went into Lisa's flat? A workman making repairs? Anyone? For any reason?"

She squints her eyes with the effort to recall. "That would be since July?"

"Roughly, but don't overlook anyone who seems out of place at any point."

She wants desperately to come up with something to help him, but it's no use. "I'm sorry, Michel. I can't think of anyone. We've not even had a salesman in a long time. They used to bother me all the time until I put up that sign." She had grown so tired of chasing them off that she'd bought a sign that read "Beware of Dog" in fluorescent magenta letters. It was much easier than buying an actual dog and seemed to have worked just as well.

"The night Lisa died, did you hear anything at all? Were you at home?"

"I haven't been out of the house for more than a few minutes for over a week. I heard her every time she came and went up those stairs, and I actually thought she'd gone away on holiday, it was so quiet." Her throat suddenly aches with sadness for the poor girl. "To think she was lying up there dead the whole time-" _Oh, stupid. STUPID. How could she be so thoughtless?_ "I'm sorry, Michael. I didn't think." She reaches across the table and places her hand over his.

He pats it with his other hand and gently disengages to take a sip of tea. "Don't worry about it. You're very kind."

"Still," she says sadly, "I just wish there was something I could do. Why didn't I pay attention?"

"Don't be so hard on yourself. Something might still come back to you." Then his expression hardens. "Mind, I do NOT want you to imagine something that didn't happen, but it's desperately important to make sure we're not missing even the smallest possibility that you've heard something or seen something that has temporarily slipped your mind."

She is convinced that it would be criminal to let this good man be unjustly convicted of such a terrible crime, just because the police are too lazy to look for the right man. She must have heard something, maybe even seen someone, that she's just overlooked.

"I'll get us another cup of tea, and we'll go over it again, shall we? Do you have time for another cup?"

Michael's expression relaxes into a smile. "I have all the time you want."

Barts Hospital Mortuary

Monday, September 21st

The part of her job that Molly likes least has been cropping up much too often lately. The paperwork involved in supervising others is tedious, but bearable. Conducting performance evaluations, and meting out corrective measures is never pleasant, but she is better than average at actually doing it in an effective and productive way. But arbitrating disputes between staff members is horribly difficult for her especially when both parties are valued employees with reasonable issues. It's worse still when one staff member seems the target for more than one or two others. She always feels a bit protective of the one being ganged up on.

Steven is such a valuable asset, and so unfailingly pleasant in any situation she's ever observed, that it's hard for her to imagine him offending anyone. And yet, the two who have come to her are also good, conscientious employees. Meg Hairston and Tom Wallace have both been with her for more than five years each, and never in that time has either of them complained about a team member. That gives their issue more weight than it would have coming from some others she could name who make it a habit.

What gives it a bit less weight is the fact that Meg and Tom are dating. It's not that Molly thinks they would deliberately conspire, but lovers do tend to see things the same way, at least in the beginning. She will keep an open mind, however. She can't allow her fondness for Steven to blind her to any real issues.

Meg and Tom arrive promptly for their appointment at half six, and they seem really nervous about being here.

"Come in and have a seat," Molly tells them with what she hopes is a reassuring smile.

Tom looks over his shoulder before he closes the door, then circles round to the lab room door and pokes his head in to look before he closes that door as well. When he finally comes back to take his seat next to Meg, Molly's smile has evaporated. "What are you looking for?"

Meg answers instead. "We're making sure he's not lurking about. You know how he sneaks up on you without a sound."

Molly keeps her expression neutral. "Is that what bothers you about him?" Anything so petty will be quickly dismissed, she decides.

Tom laughs without humour. "Hardly. I don't know how to put this delicately, so I'll just come out with it. He spends entirely too much time with the female bodies. Gives me the creeps."

"I've seen it, too," Meg adds quickly.

Molly manages to mask her disbelief. "I'm sorry, you've seen_ what_, too?"

Tom and Meg exchange a long look. Tom turns to Molly. "I haven't seen him touch them, exactly, or at least not in an unprofessional manner, but he's as good at hearing someone approaching as he is at making sure you don't hear him. I just know what I feel when I see him with them. It's not normal."

Molly proceeds carefully. "What do you think I should do about this?"

Meg fields this one. "He shouldn't be working in the mortuary. I admit, he's very good at what he does, but he needs to be doing it somewhere else. Not where there are defenceless dead women for him to..." She struggles for a term, "ogle."

It's difficult to keep from smiling. Meg and Tom are from her parents' generation, and if she'd had any doubts, the word 'ogle' would have given it away. Molly too has noticed that Steven takes more care with the deceased than some of the other team members, but she has never sensed anything untoward about his behaviour. His empathy is one of his finer attributes. "To be clear, you haven't actually seen him do anything improper, but you feel that he might?"

Tom seems to sag. "You make it sound like it's our imagination."

"Not at all. It's a matter of perception. I appreciate your concern, truly. And I do take it seriously." She smiles. "Thank you for bringing it to my attention. I promise I will follow up with him." She folds her hands on the desk and waits.

Tom and Meg exchange another look that Molly reads as acceptance. "Is there anything else?"

Tom gets to his feet and holds out his hand to Meg. "No thank you, ma'am. We've said what we came to say. I hope you won't hold it against us. I know Steven is the star here." There's a touch of anger in his words, but he follows them with a small smile.

Molly stands and returns his smile. "Of course not. I hope you won't hesitate to come to me if there are any more concerns." Any more _real_ concerns, she muses.

She records her notes on the incident in the standard format and places a copy in all three personnel folders. She will have to mention it to Steven, but his copy will not include the names of the complainants. He probably won't have much difficulty guessing who they are, regardless. She will have to watch for any friction on the team going forward. As easy-going as Steven has been, she doesn't expect any problem from his side. Meg and Tom, however, may be another story.

Of course, she understood what Tom and Meg were trying so delicately to describe. She even once had to report someone herself whom she caught actually in the act of fondling a corpse, but the culprit was a woman, and the target had been a long-dead dissection cadaver. And to be fair, it had been done as a very poorly-conceived joke rather than a perversion, but still horribly inappropriate. It had nearly caused the woman to be booted out of medical school. The point is, Molly believes she would easily spot deviant behaviour in one of her staff. Steven did not fall into the pervert category on any count. What seems to make him unpopular with his co-workers, Molly thinks, is his lack of interest in them. He reminds her of Sherlock in that way. Totally focused on the task and oblivious to the humans around him.

And I'm more used to that type of man than the normal kind, she reminds herself. It may be making her see Steven more kindly than it's fair to expect his colleagues to be able to do.

And speaking of Sherlock, she needs to let him know that there's been a development in the Lisa Cooper case, though probably not one that will affect the search for her killer. A will has been located that directs her body to be cremated and how her possessions are to be disposed of. It's unusual for such a young person to have made a will, so the police were surprised when the victim's solicitor came forward. There would be no one to attend a service, which makes Molly sad. She thinks she may go herself, just so there's someone there to say good-bye.

The wall over the sofa at Baker Street has not changed in more than a week. Sherlock has run out of blind alleys to run down, and John is taking the brunt of his frustration. At the moment, Sherlock is digging through a pile of newspapers for no apparent reason other than the pleasure of tossing them around the sitting room. John is doing his best to focus on the book he's been trying to read all morning.

When it becomes obvious to John that Sherlock will continue until he gets a reaction, John puts down his book. "What the hell are you doing?"

"There is an article on insulin abuse. I looked online and can't find it, but I know I saw it somewhere in these issues." He tosses another stack over his shoulder.

"You mean there's an aspect of drug abuse you're unfamiliar with?"

Sherlock stops tossing newsprint and turns to look at John. "It's not a matter of unfamiliarity. There was a name in the article, a source whom the author consulted. I failed to file it and need to find the article."

"A supplier of illicit insulin was listed in a news article?"

"No, John. A source who described the local insulin abuse network. Bodybuilders. Weight loss enthusiasts. Particular gyms where the abuse is suspected."

"Wouldn't Greg be able to tell you that? The police should be more aware of a drug network than..." John trails off at the icy look he just received from Sherlock.

"Lestrade has found no link to either the insulin or the formalin for Robbins. I intend to follow more productive routes."

John gets to his feet. "Then let me help you look."

Sherlock flips through the current sheaf of papers and stops abruptly. "I found it."

Sherlock moves to his desk and opens the laptop. John resumes his reading.

Half an hour later, Sherlock slams the laptop shut and heads for the door. "Come on, John. We have a lead."

The New Youth fitness centre is a converted storefront, oddly enough, in Baker Street. John is bemused by this. "You forgot that the gym you read about is within walking distance?"

"I didn't forget the location. I was looking for the name of the person who wrote about it. He works there."

Mystified as to why Sherlock views this as such a hot lead, John withholds further comment. It's not as if the as-yet unseen article would have mentioned someone by name and give his place of employment if he were selling insulin illicitly. John suspects it's more a matter of Sherlock needing desperately to do something- anything- to break the inertia.

The gym is very busy when they arrive. Men and women in fairly equal numbers are using the array of sophisticated exercise equipment across a vast expanse, surrounded by mirrored walls. Sherlock heads for the reception desk and pushes to the head of a queue of patrons waiting to sign in.

The young blonde woman manning the desk is dressed in bright purple skin-tight material that shines like polished metal. She frowns deeply at Sherlock's rudeness. "Take your place at the end of the queue, please."

"I'm looking for Jack Daltry. Is he on duty? It's a police matter."

This does not seem to surprise the woman, nor does it improve her mood. She presses a button on her headset and says, "Jack, there's someone from the police at reception to see you." She leans to her right and looks past Sherlock to smile brightly at the person waiting behind him. "Hello, Mr Harris. It's brilliant to see you!"

Before Sherlock has a chance to retaliate, John spots a man heading purposefully toward them from the back of the room and nudges Sherlock sharply in the side. "I think that's him," he tells his disgruntled partner.

The man is taller than Sherlock and outweighs him by at least 30 pounds of what appears to be solid muscle. His head is shaven clean and his florid colouring could be anger or high blood pressure. Possibly both. He strides up to Sherlock. "Come with me," he says and heads back the way he came.

He makes a turn to the right halfway to the back of the room and they follow him into what turns out to be a massage room. There are no chairs, so the three of them stand facing each other across a large padded table. "You don't look like you're from the police. What do you want?"

"I consult for the police. I believe you're aware that this facility is the subject of an ongoing investigation into the sale and misuse of insulin as a performance enhancement. I'm investigating a series of murders where insulin was used as the murder weapon, and I have reason to believe that he can be found among your customers."

Daltry's expression has morphed from sullen to bemused over the course of Sherlock's exposition. John can relate. He can't recall a single case where Sherlock shared this kind of information with a total stranger, never mind what he thinks it's going to accomplish.

"If I were really into something illegal- which I'm not, by the way- you think I'd admit to it? And who the hell told you this place is being watched? Because some of the members are bodybuilders? You think all bodybuilders need drugs to get results? Why, because you're built like a twig?. This is pure bollocks. Do a little research and go bother the spas that cater to fat ladies. I've got work to do." He starts for the door.

Sherlock steps deftly into the man's path. "The suspect is a policeman. Are you really willing to risk your livelihood to protect the people who are trying to put you out of business?"

Daltry's expression hardens. "You're working with the police AND trying to stitch one of them up?"

"So, you _do_ know of someone. I need a name."

John has no clue how Sherlock has drawn that conclusion from what Daltry just said.

Daltry, however, seems to have no trouble following his logic. "I think you know that a business like you're describing couldn't operate if there weren't some officials looking the other way. The consensus is that it's a harmless enhancement. I don't use it, and I don't allow it on the premises, but there are those who do. You're on the wrong track. I can't help you."

Sherlock smiles for no reason John can see and turns for the door. "You've been more helpful than you know, Mr Daltry. Thank you for your cooperation."

When they're out on the street heading home, John comments, "Mind telling me what the hell that was all about?"

"Just laying the bait, John," is Sherlock's cryptic response. At John's blank expression, he adds, "We're looking for a killer who hasn't made a single mistake, so far. Word will get around that we're looking in this direction. Maybe he'll get nervous enough to spoil his record."

"Even if the killer isn't Robbins?"

"I'm keeping my options open."

Tuesday, September 22, 11:00 am

Sherlock's mobile has been signalling futility for his attention all morning, to John's increasing annoyance. As it stops pinging and begins to ring, John has reached his limit. "Alright, who are you ignoring?"

"Don't know. Haven't looked," Sherlock replies, then glances at the screen and abruptly brings it to his ear. "What is it, Lestrade?" He listens for a moment. "It's too soon." He listens a moment longer, shaking his head, then puts the call on speaker so John can hear. "Say that again."

"I said there's no doubt this is number four." Greg sounds drained.

"Greg, it's John. Did you find the same injection mark?"

"That's not how he did it," Greg replies in the same flat tone. "It's Lisa Cooper's landlady. She was strangled."

"But..." John looks at Sherlock who seems bafflingly unsurprised.

"You need to find Robbins." Sherlock demands.

Greg blows out a breath that hisses across the line. "He's here, Sherlock. He found the body."

"We're on our way," Sherlock tells Greg and ends the call.

John gives his head a shake. "But she was totally on his side. Why would he kill his one ally?"

Sherlock dismisses this with a wave as they head down the stairs. "Allegiances change, John. Perhaps she was trying to throw us off and has been blackmailing him. Or they were in on it together for some reason we haven't tumbled to." He grabs the first taxi that appears as Sherlock continues his discourse. "Robbins has 'found' two bodies at the same address. How likely is that to be coincidence?"

"She didn't ring false to me. Not a bit," John insists.

Sherlock gives him a pitying look. "Mrs Hudson is equally convincing, when it suits her. Even in the face of CIA thugs, if you recall. People don't expect the elderly to be clever enough to fool them. It's one of the few advantages of age."

"And you think Robbins needed to silence her," John says, not believing the woman he met was a threat to anyone.

"Exactly."

Irene Miller's body tells the short, brutal story of the way she died. There is a length of vinyl coated wire tied round her neck so tightly that it is buried in her flesh. Her tongue is swollen and protrudes between blue lips. Her eyes are wide open and bulging, the sclera mottled with tell-tale petechial specks. Her face is puffed and purple. Her killer left her body on the floor in the kitchen, a few steps from the back door.

John is crouched down next to the body. Sherlock and Lestrade stand behind him as he completes his exam. "She wouldn't have been conscious more than a few seconds, once he tightened the wire. It would take another four minutes to kill her, but this took her down almost instantly." He stands up. "Her clothes aren't disturbed, and it doesn't look like she put up any fight at all."

"Very efficient," Sherlock comments. "No sexual assault. Nothing missing or disturbed anywhere in the flat?" He's looking at Lestrade now.

"Not that we've found. It's neat as a pin," Greg confirms. "Looks like she's been dead less than a day. John?"

"Post mortem lividity and the rigor in her jaw and face, I'd say so. Maybe 12 hours," John tells them. "Molly will be able to narrow that down."

Standing over this woman's body in the same kitchen where they'd had tea with her weeks before is getting to John more than he expected. He's never acquired the ability to wall off his emotions at a murder scene, but there is something especially sad about this woman in particular that he can't put his finger on.

"Robbins has found two bodies in the same house. Tell me again how this is coincidence." Sherlock is having none of it.

"I know how it looks, Sherlock," Greg says, looking down at Mrs Miller. "I know you think I'm crazy, but I don't think he did it."

Michael Robbins seems frozen in place on Irene Miller's sofa in the sunny sitting room when the three of them come out of the kitchen. He doesn't even look up when Sherlock walks over and stands directly in front of him.

"Has he talked to anyone?" John asks Greg, starting to wonder if Robbins might be in shock.

"Not much. I gather they were close friends," Lestrade tells him.

Robbins seems to come round all at once and looks up at Lestrade. "I know how this looks, but I swear by all that's holy, I did NOT KILL ANYONE!"

"What were you doing here?" Sherlock asks him.

"She called me. Said she had remembered something that would help clear me of Lisa's murder. Now tell me why in hell I would kill her?" He looks as if he's waiting for a blow to fall. "She was my friend." His voice cracks on the last word, and he looks away.

"She called you this morning?" Lestrade asks.

"No, last night. I...I was here a couple of weeks ago. We talked about the murder, and she said she would think about it. She thought she might remember hearing something. She called late last night, and I said I'd come by this morning." Robbins shakes his head. "I should have come last night."

"Talking to a witness wasn't very smart," Sherlock tells him. "Witness intimidation is a serious charge."

"She was my friend," Robbins repeats miserably. "Maybe you should consider looking for the person she was about to implicate instead of the one she was going to clear."

"What makes you think she was going to implicate someone? Did she tell you that?" Sherlock asks.

"Not specifically, but she sounded very happy about whatever it was. I just knew it sounded like good news for my case, and I-I was so relieved... I just didn't think. It never occurred to me that she might be putting herself in jeopardy."

"So, you have no idea what this 'something' was, yet you're sure it was not only going to identify the killer, but clear you as well, and best of all, the killer himself overheard this?" Sherlock trades glances with Greg. "You expect anyone to believe that very convenient scenario?"

Robbins gets unsteadily to his feet. "It's pretty damned inconvenient for me!" He sinks back to the sofa and puts his head his hands. "She was the kindest person I've ever known, and she's dead because she wanted to help me." He looks up at Sherlock glassy eyes. "There's nothing you can do that could make me feel any worse than I already do."

"I'll take you back to my office, and we can talk there," Lestrade tells him..

Robbins nods and gets wearily to his feet. "I need to make a call." He heads for the front door, pulling out his mobile.

"Will you be joining us?" Lestrade asks Sherlock.

"Yes." Sherlock's tone has flattened so abruptly that John gives him a worried look.

Lestrade notices it too, going by the narrow glance he gives John as he goes to join Robbins.

In the taxi on the way to New Scotland Yard, Sherlock is not even bothering with his phone, and John decides this needs to be addressed. "What happened to you back there?"

Sherlock doesn't turn away from the view outside the cab. "Did you believe him, John?"

"I think he was honestly shocked and upset about her death, if that's what you mean." And all at once John realizes why seeing Mrs Miller on the kitchen floor bothered him so much. "He looked a lot like I would if I'd found Mrs Hudson dead and someone were accusing me of killing her."

Sherlock turns to look at him. "I couldn't have put it better myself," he says softly, and turns back to the window.

He is silent for the rest of the ride.

Barts Hospital Mortuary

Tuesday, September 22nd, 11:00 am

Molly checks her phone for the tenth time this morning and wonders what can possibly be more interesting to Sherlock than an update on the Lisa Cooper case. She left him a voicemail before she went home last night, then followed with several text messages this morning. So far, it hasn't worked. Even though her news is minor, she truly expected a speedier response. She realised after she finished the voicemail that she had probably made it sound more significant than it actually is, and now she's eager to correct that misconception. The longer he goes thinking that she has something good for him, the more annoyed he's going to be when the news is just that the body was released much sooner than they had expected.

"You left me a note," the soft voice comes from directly behind her, and Molly nearly jumps out of her skin.

She turns round so quickly that she tips off balance, and finds Steven's smiling face a foot away from her own. He grabs her shoulders briefly to steady her, and then takes a step back to give her space.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you."

She takes a shaky breath and can't help frowning. "I think you do that on purpose sometimes."

He shrugs. "It's just too easy, I guess. People should pay more attention to their surroundings."

There's something off about his tone, and a tiny alarm tings somewhere at the back of her mind. "My note asked you to stop by my office at the end of your shift, Steven, not as soon as you came in."

"I was going to come see you this morning anyway. Your note didn't change that."

She is suddenly aware that Steven is the only staff member on duty until the others come in at three. They are alone in this section of the basement.

"There was a murder last night," she says, pleased with the calm tone she manages, "and they will be bringing the body any time now. I have to get ready for a post mortem." She starts to walk around him, and he steps into her path. She makes her voice as calm as she can manage. "What are you doing, Steven?"

"You know, my grandmother used to say that it's better to be lucky than good. I think I must be the luckiest man on earth. It's the only reason I can think of that your friend Sherlock hasn't already showed up at my door."

The alarm tings again, louder this time. "What are you talking about?"

"You left a message for him last night. I just happened to be standing outside your door, and I heard what you said. What are the odds he'd give me time to clean up?" Steven smiles, and turns Molly's blood to ice.

"I'm leaving this room now, Steven. You need to get out of my way."

To her surprise, he steps back and bows gallantly. She heads for the door, but only takes half a step before the sting in her neck tells her that turning her back was a terrible mistake.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

New Scotland Yard

Observation Room 4

12:45 pm

Lestrade has been watching the interrogation in the next room through the one way mirror for the past fifteen minutes, and it's becoming increasingly clear that Sherlock has changed roles from prosecutor to defence solicitor. Even though Greg was there in Mrs Miller's sitting room when Sherlock's attitude toward Robbins visibly changed, this outright advocacy on the man's behalf is surprising. If it were anyone but Sherlock, Greg would say he was feeling guilty for having been so wrong about Robbins.

"If you believe the killer intended to prevent her revealing information that would implicate him, how do you imagine he found out she was about to do that? We need a good answer to that question." Sherlock leans forward, eyes locked on Robbins'.

Robbins seems to share Greg's surprise at Sherlock's about-face, going by the cautious hope in his expression. "If I could give you one, believe me I would. Maybe it's someone she knew, and somehow she unknowingly revealed to him that she had figured it out?"

John has been a silent observer until now, referring to his notes. "What if he went back to the flat for an entirely different reason, and she happened to recognise him? That would explain the strangulation instead of his usual method. He wasn't planning to kill her, so he had to improvise."

Sherlock and Robbins both turn to look at John. Sherlock smiles. "That's an excellent point, John. If we knew what triggered him to return, that could help identify him."

"What happened yesterday with the case?" Robbins is warming to this idea.

"Lisa Cooper's will was discovered, and her body was released for cremation per her wishes," John replies. "That is a definite change from the other victims."

"Who knew about that?" Robbins asks as John flips through his notes.

"The solicitor who had the will, the morgue, and the local council." John glances at the one-way mirror. "And the Met, of course."

Robbins seems to sag a bit. "That would include me again."

Sherlock shakes his head. "No, it doesn't. The council isn't a likely source, but we'll talk to them, and the morgue personnel, but there is also the possibility that the killer has returned to each of the victims' flats and just not been noticed. It may have nothing to do with the body being released."

"Or it may have everything to do with the body being released," John adds. "Too bad we have no idea how."

Greg is not a fan of coincidence, and he agrees with John. The body being released is worth following up. And since the interrogation has officially turned into a brainstorming session, Greg leaves his observation perch to join them. In the thirty seconds it takes to go from one room to the next, the discussion has moved to job assignments.

"Robbins, would you be able to interview the local council for any unusual contacts they may have had regarding Miss Cooper's case?" Sherlock directs this to Robbins, but glances up at Greg when he comes through the door.

It's a vote of confidence in Michael Robbins who is clearly moved by it. "Of course. I can do that this afternoon." He looks to Greg who nods his approval. Robbins gets to his feet. "I'll let you know what I find." He clears his throat. "I-I appreciate this." He ducks out of the room before anyone can respond.

Greg also clears his throat because it's one of the more unusual moments he can recall with Sherlock, and that's saying something. "Okay what's the next step?"

Sherlock and John stand up, ready to head out. "Press them for the IP addresses from the ancestry sites. That's still one of the best potential links to the killer. John and I are going to Barts for the autopsy on Mrs Miller."

"We're no longer interested in the insulin? Or the embalming fluid?" Greg asks.

Sherlock shakes his head. "There are no identifiable markers in common in the doses of insulin the killer used because the drug dissipates too quickly. We couldn't prove a particular sample matched to a victim, much less to a particular source. It's proving to be a very efficient weapon. As for the formalin, there are more sources than we have time to chase down, and it only applies to one victim." Sherlock's phone pings a text notification, as it's been doing throughout the interview. And just as he's done each time, Sherlock taps the screen to dismiss it without looking.

"A new body will fire up the press coverage," Greg says. "Maybe we'll get lucky with someone realising they saw something."

Sherlock and John follow him out into the corridor. "Joining us at Barts?" John asks Greg.

Greg shakes his head. "I'll pass on this one. Let me know if anything unusual turns up."

Sherlock doesn't look at his phone until they are in the taxi on the way to Barts.

* * *

Molly's head is throbbing, and her eyes feel like the lids are stuck together. It takes her a moment to realise there is something keeping them shut that feels like tape. She assesses her situation as well as she can, being careful not to reveal that she is conscious in case she is being watched.

She is propped against a vertical surface that feels like concrete, as does the floor she can feel with her fingertips. Her hands are bound together at the wrists, behind her back, but not tightly enough to impede that much exploration. Her ankles are also bound. The worst is the tape over her mouth. Her nose is slightly stuffy and it's hard not to panic at how hard it is to breathe properly.

So, where is she? And where is Steven Basil? She can't begin to imagine why he would do something like this to her. Can't even guess what he thinks it's going to accomplish other than get him arrested for kidnapping—she chooses not to consider that he might have an even darker goal because contemplating being an abductee is quite enough. No need to imagine being a murder victim.

None of it makes sense. She is not a threat to Steven beyond possibly placing a reprimand in his file. No one in his right mind kidnaps his employer to avoid a slap on the wrist. It's the act of a lunatic, but he doesn't act like a lunatic. Not even when he was moments from abducting her was there a hint of that.

If he's not insane, than why? Did someone hire him to take her? Who? Why? And thinking Steven Basil could be a mercenary seems as crazy as thinking he's a kidnapper. And yet, here she is, against her will, and he put her here. What else can that be but kidnapping?

Her head hurts, and trying to sort this out isn't helping. She needs to free herself and get out of here. Once she's safe, she'll leave it to Sherlock to figure out.

Thinking of Sherlock makes her feel less like a clueless idiot because clearly he didn't see Steven as a threat, either. If Steven had showed any signs of this kind of thing, wouldn't Sherlock of all people have spotted it? She certainly can't be the most unobservant person on earth when the MOST observant man on earth was apparently just as blind as she was.

Thinking of Sherlock reminds her of that nearly the last thing Steven said to her was something about Sherlock, but what? Something about Steven being surprised that Sherlock hadn't shown up at his door, but that made no sense then and it makes no sense now. Did he think she had Sherlock investigating Tom and Meg's complaint, for heaven's sake? Surely not.

She's beginning to think that whatever he drugged her with to get her here is affecting her mind. She needs to focus on getting her hands free and finding out where she is so she can get help. It feels and smells and sounds like a damp, steamy roombasement, and she hopes it's the basement at Barts. Although she is uncomfortably aware that it would have been easy for him to put her into a body bag and bundle her out on a trolley and into a van, she chooses to believe that it hasn't been long enough. If she's locked away somewhere out in the country, help is going to be much harder to find.

The hospital basement is obviously closer to home, but there are disadvantages to that, too. For one thing, the basement is a vast Victorian maze of storage rooms, steam rooms, and winding corridors that dead-end into walls that were once passages. If he's chosen the right spot, and if he doesn't come back, she could die of thirst before anyone finds her.

She starts to work on her wrists, picking methodically at the tape with desperate fingers.

* * *

Barts Hospital Mortuary

2:00 pm

Sherlock and John find the Met team which has brought Miller's body to the morgue standing in the corridor next to the trolley which still contains the body in its black plastic bag. They look up as Sherlock and John approach. "Nobody's here," one of them says, gesturing at the closed double doors.

John gets to the door first and gives it a push. Then Sherlock does the same thing, as if John's just not up to the task.

"It's locked," the other Met officer comments dryly.

Sherlock peers through the pair of windows in the doors above John's eye level, then gives the door another fruitless push. "There's another way in," he says, and starts off down the corridor toward Molly's office door. A moment later, the double doors open from the inside and Sherlock waves John in.

They find one of Molly's lab assistants lying on his face on the other side of the autopsy table. John recognises the man's face but doesn't know his name.

Sherlock is interrogating the man who is barely conscious. "Where is Molly Hooper?"

John has rolled the man onto his back, and the name badge pinned to the front of his lab coat says he is Steven Basil. John can't recall ever hearing that name, but he has seen the man around the morgue. Steven has a small laceration on his forehead with minimal bleeding. He looks up at John with bleary eyes. "Wh-what?" He tries again to sit up, and John helps him.

"What happened to Molly?" Sherlock demands.

Steven starts to look up, then winces in pain. "I don't know. She wasn't here when I came in." He touches his forehead gingerly and looks at the bit of blood that comes away on his fingertips. "There was a bloke moving a trolley out to the dock when I came by there, and I wondered about it at the time. I didn't think there were any bodies due to be shipped out. I came in here to check the log, and someone must have come up behind me. I heard footsteps, then the next thing I knew, you were leaning over me," he says to Sherlock.

"There was a body on the trolley?" John mentally corrects 'body' to 'person', but it doesn't help the knot in his stomach.

"Did you see the truck it was being loaded into?" Sherlock asks without waiting for the man to answer John's question.

Basil shakes his head, and winces again. "Sorry, no I didn't. And yes, there was a body bag on the trolley."

It soon becomes clear that he can't describe the man who was pushing the trolley, either. "He was wearing the sort of standard blue coveralls most funeral home staff wear. Dark hair, is all I can say. I only saw him from behind."

"Is there CCTV in that area? The dock? Or in here?" Sherlock glances around the room.

John looks, too, but there's nothing. As much time as they've spent in this room, it stuns John that they don't already know this.

"We make videos of some of the post mortems, sure. But the cameras are only on when we need them," Basil says. "Even then, they only show the table from above."

Sherlock steps away, pulling out his phone, and John hears him rapid-fire the situation to Greg who must be reeling on the other end of the call. Sherlock with this kind of adrenaline load can be intimidating as hell, but John knows Greg will be more than equal to it by the time he gets here.

"He's on his way," Sherlock tells John when he ends the call. "He'll get the local CCTV footage ready for us. We might be able to identify a suspect vehicle." To Basil: "What time would it have been that you saw the man at the loading dock? Exactly what time?"

"That's easy," Basil replies. "I was due in here at 10, so just a few minutes before that."

The men who were in the corridor with Miller's body when they arrived had followed them into the mortuary and have been waiting just inside the door, seemingly for instructions on what to do. Those instructions finally come in the form of a text message. "We have another one to pick up," he tells his partner, then seems to notice the instant reaction his words spark in John and Sherlock and quickly clarifies for their benefit, "It's a man's body." And the two hurry out, leaving their trolley and Mrs Miller's body abandoned in the middle of the entryway.

Lestrade arrives at Barts less than a half hour after Sherlock's call, and a brief battle begins. It's more of a skirmish, really.

Lestrade is standing with arms crossed. "I've got plenty of people who can review the CCTV footage, Sherlock. I need you here."

"They won't know what to look for, I can do it faster and we're wasting valuable time on a debate you're going to lose," Sherlock shoots back. Before Lestrade can counter, Sherlock steps around him and strides out of the room.

"He's right, you know," John tells Greg, and follows after his friend.

A fifteen minute cab ride to NSY is passed in silence. Once there, reviewing the footage is a dizzying process for John. Sherlock keeps the playback on the fast forward setting, slowing it down to review bits here and there. The local area for a half mile in all directions is fairly well covered, and Sherlock finds far too many potential targets for any of them to be useful. None of them stands out as sinister in any way. Or all of them do, in John's opinion. Either way, it's a dead end.

Except that Sherlock sees it differently. "Not one of the vans has any visible branding of a funeral home, and none to the drivers we can see is wearing dark coveralls. Not a single vehicle candidate captured on the way to or from Barts in the time span he told us." Sherlock gets up and starts pacing the small video room. "We have nothing but his word for what happened." Sherlock stops pacing and looks at John. "Could he have faked his head injury?"

"The forehead laceration was real enough, but it doesn't prove he was really unconscious when we found him," John concedes. "But Sherlock, I recognised him as one of Molly's regular staff. Why would he lie?"

Sherlock frowns. "I don't recall seeing him before. What is his job?"

Either Sherlock has deleted the nonessential memory of a lowly morgue APT, or John met the man during one of his solo excursions to Molly's morgue. "He's one of the morgue assistants. There are three or four of them, I think. He-"

But Sherlock has abruptly gone dead still, fingers pressed to his temples and both eyes tightly closed.

"Sherlock?"

And just as suddenly, Sherlock whips out his mobile and makes a call. "Lestrade, it's the morgue attendant. He took Molly to stop her telling us he's the killer. Don't let him out of your sight."

"What?!" John all but yelps, and hears almost at the same instant Lestrade voice the same reaction.

"I don't have time to explain it to you, just find him and hold him. Molly is still there somewhere in the building, and he put her there." He ends the call and breaks for the door.

"Idiots! They let him leave," Sherlock says as John jogs to keep up with his long strides out to the street to find a cab.

On the way back to Barts, Sherlock gives him the highlights. "Molly left me a voicemail last night that I didn't look at until we were in the cab earlier. The message said she had an update on the Cooper case, and she made it sound urgent except that I knew it wasn't because I had already read her texts explaining that the voicemail was a mistake. I was going to ask her about it when we got to Barts."

John looks at him blankly. "Sorry, how does this make Basil the killer?"

"He overheard her leaving me the message, John! She said in the message that she was still at the morgue but about to leave for home. Then we arrive at the morgue and find Molly missing and her assistant on the floor with a minor cut on his head, apparently unconscious. And need I point out that he would be very familiar with the procedures for unclaimed bodies? It's HIM!"

John blames his long association with Sherlock for how dismayingly easy it is to imagine what the killer's motive would have been for arranging easy access to a female body for an extended period where decomposition is delayed, as in a refrigerated morgue drawer. What better way to do that than to supply the bodies to one's place of employment by murdering his own selected victims? If Molly somehow discovered Basil in the act, it could explain why she was taken. He stops himself from following that thought any farther. They will find her in time. There is simply no other option.

* * *

Steven is not as confident as he would like to be that he has fooled the police. He's made some mistakes, and it's by no means certain that his corrective measures will be good enough. It would be a tragedy to see it all end because of a few missteps that were not foreseeable. Years of planning, learning, trial and error- all could be wasted.

But his life has been filled with events that had looked like misfortune at the start, but turned out to have the most perfect silver linings. Events that were disasters for someone else had turned into blessings for him. He has always got on well with people, but it never seemed to translate to relationships with women. He had found the solution to this literally by accident. A young homeless woman, found dead from exposure one winter's day, had been brought to the funeral home where he was apprenticed. He had spent the entire night preparing her for a viewing that never took place.

She had no one, and all of his exquisite work was shut away in the cold room while the funeral director tried in vain to find someone to take responsibility for her. Eventually, her lovely body was cremated, and the ashes interred in a pauper's grave, but Steven had cherished the memory of her for years afterward. He could spend an entire evening alone, immersed in the memories of her. He thinks now that he must have fallen in love with her the very first night as he spent hours cleaning her from head to toe, brushing and drying her silky auburn hair, applying cosmetics to her perfect features. He had come to know her body better than he knew his own. He could still picture every inch of it in perfect detail, all these years later.

But in the end, it had been just a taste of perfection. He had tried to form the same kind of bond with others, but the time was always too short. Funeral homes are transient places, and Steven began to search for a better alternative. He could not just wait for another perfect companion who would stay more than the day or two most viewings allowed before the inevitable burial. It was, once again, pure luck that gave him the answer.

He had been watching a program on television, a true crime documentary about cold case murders. At one point, they had talked about unidentified bodies being kept in the mortuary for extended periods, and suddenly he knew exactly what he needed to do. The process has, of course, evolved over time. Each morgue has its own 'clientele', with larger venues being generally better in providing unclaimed female bodies. But quantity is never as important as quality. Barts is his fourth placement, and has provided the best in both metrics. But even that stopped being enough.

His solution was brilliant, but he knew from the start that it couldn't last indefinitely. He knew a time would come when he would have to move on. He just hadn't planned for it to happen so soon. Lisa Cooper's landlady was simply unfortunate, but the path that had led him there was his own doing. He had become certain that his diary was in Lisa's flat, and he had gone back to find it. He had never left it behind before, but when it came up missing, he had become convinced that he had somehow left it behind and not noticed until yesterday. That was unprecedented, but he could not shake the certainty. And so he had gone back, searched the flat, and found nothing. It was on the way out that he had encountered the woman downstairs, and she had remembered him in his policeman's disguise. He had not been wearing it to search Lisa's flat although he certainly could have done, and should have, looking back. It would have all worked out fine. The irony was that he had found the diary under the passenger seat of his car after he got home. The old landlady would be the only death for which he would apologise because it was completely unnecessary.

Now he holds in his hands the fate of the kindest person he's ever known, and he has very little time to decide what to do. Hers would be the second needless death, and he is not sure he can take one more.

No matter how short the time, he has one task that can't be put off. In case this all goes wrong, he must make sure that his story is not left to the victors to write.

He sits down at his computer and begins to type.

* * *

Molly has broken her nails to the quick, rubbed her fingertips raw, and abraded the skin from her wrists, but her hands are still firmly bound. Her shoulders ache with the effort she's been making to stretch what must be very heavy duct tape, and she's dripping with perspiration.

There hasn't been a single encouraging sound from outside this room. It feels like ages since she woke here, and it's getting harder by the moment to imagine that she's going to leave it alive. She can only hope that Sherlock and John must be looking for her by now. She knows they will do their best, but how can they find her unless they somehow figure out what's happened? Sherlock is the best, but what can he possibly have to go on that would even put Steven on his radar?

He certainly escaped hers. For too long she-

She hears something new, and strains to identify the sound. A door opening? It seems far away.

Footsteps. If it's Steven, he's making no effort to sneak up on her.

She tenses as he comes closer, and her breathing speeds up along with her hammering heart.

The footsteps stop just a few paces away.

"I don't think they're going to find you, Molly."

His voice is coming from her level rather than from above, as if he's squatted down in front of her.

Suddenly, he is pulling the tape from her mouth with oddly gentle fingers. "Sorry, this is going to hurt a bit."

She takes a deep breath the second her mouth is clear. "Let me go, Steven." She sounds like she's been running, out of breath and wispy. She clears her throat. "You have to let me go."

He's pulling the tape from her eyes now, and she realises he must have put something beneath the tape to protect her lids and lashes. When the tape is gone, she blinks rapidly to regain focus. The room is dimly lit by a single bare bulb in a wall fixture. Steven is now standing in front of her.

"Even if they think to search the basement, they're not likely to find this room. The door is behind a storage rack in another room that looks like it hasn't been opened in decades."

"You're planning to just leave me here?" She searches her scanty knowledge of the obscure parts of the basement level trying to pinpoint where she must be, but comes up empty. "Can't you at least tell me what I've done to deserve this?"

He frowns, looking honestly puzzled. "Are you saying that you don't know?"

"Steven, I have no idea why you would do something like this."

His eyes fix on her for a long moment, then shift out of focus, his expression going slack. "You really don't know," he says softly, then shakes his head slowly. "Then it's truly meant to end. I've made too many mistakes. This… this is the worst."

She's not sure she wants to know, but she has to keep him talking. "Steven, what did you do? What were you afraid I knew?"

He smiles sadly. "For the first time in my life, I understand remorse. You're the only person I've ever known who didn't make me feel like an aberration."

"Remorse for what, Steven? What are you going to do?"

"It's what I've already done, I'm afraid. I seem to have painted myself into a corner, and I've unfortunately brought you with me. Now I'm going to have to finish what I started, whether I want to o not."

"The person I thought you were could not have kidnapped me, let alone whatever else you have planned. I guess that makes me the bigger fool."

"Not at all. I'm exactly the person you thought I was. No more, no less. I won't trot out a tale for you about my abusive childhood and how I was twisted by circumstances to develop my unusual, um, appetites. It would all be a lie. I had great parents, and a lovely upbringing. Whatever kinks I have are just a matter of taste."

It isn't much of a leap to realise that the complaint Tom and Meg brought to her must have been not only valid, but probably an underestimate of what had been going on practically under her nose. She is having a hard time pushing back the images he's conjured. "I thought you were a human being."

"And so I am. We come in all stripes, you know. Some of my colleagues have told you just how exceptional my stripes happen to be, and it's to your credit that you didn't believe them."

"You fooled me."

"I don't think that's quite true. You accepted me in spite of myself, Molly. I want you to know that I hold you in the highest esteem, and that is entirely due to your kindness. I think you respect my work, at least the part you know about, and you must believe that I have the greatest reverence for the bodies of the deceased. They were selected after extensive research and with the utmost attention to detail. My companions no longer care how their bodies are treated, but I do. Very much. It's important that you believe me."

It suddenly dawns on her what he means by 'selected', and her stomach rolls over. "Steven, did you kill them yourself?"

He looks surprised. "You truly are the innocent, aren't you? Yes, Molly. That happens to be what I thought you'd sorted out when you left your message. I don't think you really want to know the details. I do have some discretion, after all. The very least I can do for my companions is to respect their privacy regarding our relationship. I can imagine that you yourself are not someone who kisses and tells, are you Molly?"

This is going in the worst possible direction, and she swiftly switches to one that's hardly safer. "What are you planning to do with me?"

"I need you to believe that I had every intention of leaving here on good terms and moving on to another mortuary with your excellent references. You were never meant to know anything of what I've been doing." His gaze goes out of focus, and his voice softens. "I would never have hurt you."

She makes her voice as calm as she can manage. "I believe you, Steven. I want to help you. If you just let me go, we can work everything out."

His gaze comes back to her. "I can't tell you how much I wish that were true"

* * *

Barts Hospital Mortuary

4:00 pm

"He left here a half hour after you did," Greg tells Sherlock. "He said he was going to have his forehead cut tended to somewhere in the hospital. According to his security pass record, he's still here."

In the time it's taken them to get here, John has watched Sherlock put the rest of the pieces together with a kind of manic desperation unique even for him. At the moment, he's cramming it all into a summary for Greg.

"I don't know how he chose the pool of potential victims, but he narrowed it down using the genealogy websites to single women without living relatives. He took Molly because of the message she left for me last night. He thinks she was about to tell me something that would lead to him. He's wrong, but he won't believe her. We have to find her before he decides to silence her the way he did Irene Miller."

Greg seems to be carefully choosing his next words. "Why would he kill the others and leave Molly alive?"

"Because he knows her. Whatever he's getting out of killing strangers, he knows he won't get it from killing probably the only friend he's ever had." Greg looks over at John, and it's clear that he doesn't accept Sherlock's wishful thinking any more than John does. Basil has less reason to keep Molly alive than anyone else he's killed.

"Where the hell is the caretaker?" Sherlock's voice has risen in pitch almost as much as it has in volume.

They're waiting for the building supervisor with his bunch of master keys as well as his knowledge of the maze they're about to enter. It wasn't easy getting Sherlock to wait, but logic eventually overcame his desperation. They will make far better progress with help than without it.

If the keys don't get here soon, John knows, Sherlock will start dismantling the basement brick by brick on his own.

* * *

"Steven, you can still let me go and give yourself a chance to get away, too. Once they start searching the basement, it's going to be much harder to do."

He's been pacing, but when she speaks Steven stops moving. "It's already too late," he says softly. "Don't you hear them?"

She can, and it's terrifying because she's sure now that time will run out before they find her. She hears voices calling her name, calling Steven's name. Running footsteps, slamming doors. All of it coming closer, but not fast enough for her.

Steven comes back to stand at her feet. "Meeting you has been both the best and worst thing that has ever happened to me." He reaches into an inside pocket of his lab coat and pulls out a blue leather case, and a long white envelope. "And so it ends."

He smiles sadly, then bends down and places the envelope on the floor next to her bound feet. "It's my confession," he tells her. "And a rather lengthy explanation. I hope it will bring some... what is that cliché you hear on the news in these situations? Closure. I hope it will bring some closure for the ones left behind."

She looks up at him and lifts her chin. "They'll know what you've used, and how to reverse the effects."

He opens the case and pulls out an injector filled with fluid. "Not this time." He kneels down next to her. "You've been my friend, Molly. I'm sorry."

"Steven, you don't have to do this. Just wait -"

But he's stopped listening. The injector is poised in his right hand, and with the sounds of shouts getting much closer now, he plunges the needle into his own neck and presses the plunger home.

When Sherlock comes through the door three endless minutes later, her captor is convulsing painfully at her feet. By the time Sherlock frees her at last, Steven Basil takes his final breath.

* * *

She's still feeling shaky two hours later. Sherlock and John have come home with her, and she's glad for the company. Up to a point. Sherlock's adrenaline level seems to be waning, but he's still pacing like a caged tiger. Molly is curled up on her sofa sipping yet another cup of tea with honey, prepared by John whose calm presence is barely balancing Sherlock's energy. Greg let her go with minimal questioning, having got her agreement to come in to give a full statement tomorrow. The facts, after all, pretty much spoke for themselves. Her supervisor has insisted that she take a week's leave to recover, and she was actually willing to take him up on it without an argument. She is physically unhurt, but there is no dismissing the aftermath that is likely to follow in the next few days, not to mention the self-examination she plans to do over how she could have been so blind to the obvious.

"You couldn't have known," Sherlock says out of nowhere. He's facing the window when he says it, and doesn't turn until she replies.

She's always suspected that he can almost read minds, and this is just another example. "Thank goodness you did," she says and means it sincerely.

Sherlock scoffs at this, and John shakes his head. "I've been telling him the same thing."

"He was a serial killer, and he had done it before, at other mortuaries," Sherlock says, pulling out an envelope like the one Steven Basil had left at her feet. "This is a copy of his confession."

John looks at Molly. "He fooled a lot of people before he got to you." He looks up at Sherlock. "And you. He had a lot of practice getting away with it. We can keep beating ourselves up for not being psychic, or we can just be glad he finally chose the right victim."

Molly shudders. "I would have preferred not to be a witness. He deliberately caused himself as much pain as possible. It was hard to watch."

Sherlock hands her the envelope. "Read that when you feel up to it. He doesn't deserve anyone's sympathy, most especially not yours."

She accepts the envelope and places it on the sofa next to her. "I know that, but it's still hard to watch someone end their life that way. He said nothing had ever happened to him to make him that way, but I don't believe him."

Sherlock's smile is distant and sad. "Of course you don't."

The silence stretches, and Molly yawns into it. "I need to sleep, and you two need to go home." She uncurls from the sofa and pulls her robe tight around her. "Thank you. It seems like so little to say for saving my life." She hugs John, and takes a step toward Sherlock. To her surprise, he pulls her into a brief, gentle hug, resting his chin on top of her head for a moment before he releases her.

"Thank you for staying alive until we found you," he says softly, and walks out.

John looks after him, then turns to Molly. "Call if you need anything." He heads for the door.

"Will he be okay?"

John pauses and smiles. "Just stay safe."

She locks the door behind him ad goes to the window to watch them. Sherlock has worked his usual magic and materialised a cab for them. She watches until they pull away and the taillights disappear around the corner.

* * *

Barts Hospital Mortuary

Monday, September 28th

Meg Hairston is the first of Molly's staff to stop by this morning. Meg is here to welcome her back. And, no doubt, to apologize. Again.

"I hope you like chocolates," Meg says of the enormous beribboned box she's just placed on the worktop in front of Molly.

"Thank you, Meg, but please have some. I'll be a house if I eat all of this on my own." She has told Meg repeatedly that none of what happened was her fault, but she seems determined to think otherwise.

"You're just tiny wisp, for heaven's sake. You can afford the pounds, unlike the rest of us," Meg insists. She smiles brightly, and then abruptly looks away, but not quickly enough.

Molly touches Meg's shoulder lightly. "Please. You didn't do anything wrong, Meg. It wasn't your fault in any way." She can't seem to convince the poor woman. Molly has told Meg as much as she can about how twisted Steven Basil truly was, and that Meg was actually right about him, but it hasn't changed her mind.

Meg shakes her head and looks up with a too-bright smile. "I'm sorry. This is really getting old, isn't it? Tom tells me I'm feeling sorrier for myself than for you, but it's not true. I hope you don't agree with him."

Molly does, actually. A bit. "I think seeing me upsets you, and I completely understand. You should have taken a few days to recover, too. It would be no problem."

"I'm a reminder for you, too," Meg says, thinking it over. "Maybe I should?"

Relieved, Molly pulls Meg into a quick hug. "Take the rest of the day and come back Wednesday for your regular shift. Let me know if you need more time."

Meg's eyes glisten again, and Molly rushes to add, "Please take at least half of these," she pushes the candy box a few inches closer to Meg.

"They'll be here when I come back," she says, sniffling. "We'll have a cup of tea."

"I'll look forward to it," Molly waves her out the door and sighs.

As Meg leaves, a workman comes in laden with more cameras. "Okay if I get started in here now, Miss?"

He's been installing cameras in the corridors and at the loading dock. She had asked him to leave the morgue until last so she could finish some work. "Yes, of course. I'll go to my office and stay out from underfoot," she tells him.

The added security measures had been under consideration for years. Recent events, plus the insistence of certain consulting detective, moved them to the top of the list. Molly thinks it's a bit like locking the barn door after the horse is gone, but she appreciates the sentiment.

"Don't worry about that," the workman tells her. "You just do what you normally do, and I'll keep out of your way as much as I can."

Another consequence of what happened is that the basement is being mapped and inspected. There are too many areas that have been unused for so long that no one remembered what was there. From what she's heard, it's been something of a treasure trove of hospital memorabilia: decades-old medical equipment, crates of cleaning supplies from the 1930's, and even a stash of photographs that showed the mortuary as it had been in the time of Jack the Ripper. She can't wait to tell Sherlock about those.

* * *

John hears Greg's familiar tread on the stairs over the rush of water he's got running in the sink. He shuts off the taps just as Sherlock comes up the stairs behind Greg. Two stairs at a time. Must be they've buried the hatchet, for now.

"John?" Greg calls from the landing. Sherlock pushes the kitchen door open and Greg comes into the kitchen, dripping wet.

John grabs a wad of paper towels and hands it to Greg. "You don't believe in umbrellas either, I see." Sherlock would sooner drown than deign to hold one of those devices over his head. John suspects his aversion has something to do with Mycroft never being without one, but he knows better than to say it.

"Thanks," Greg says as he mops the dripping water from his hair. "Left it at the office, I think. It's like walking under a waterfall out there."

Sherlock has dropped his sopping coat on the bannister rail and moved into the sitting room, dripping water on the carpet as he goes. "You left it in the taxi," Sherlock informs them.

Greg walks through to the sitting room, still mopping his collar. "Why didn't you say something?" There's no reply, and Greg comes back to the kitchen muttering under his breath.

John chuckles. "So, how did it go?"

It turns out that Mr Daltry of New Youth fitness centre has no sense of humour when it comes to being threatened by consulting detectives. Greg and Sherlock have just come from making a conciliatory visit to Daltry's place of work. John, although a witness to the incident in question, was not a participant and was permitted to abstain.

Greg's grimace says how pleasant the visit was not. "I guess if they had really been under surveillance for suspected drug activity, the threat might have worked. But the place is squeaky clean. Despite the fact that Basil was indeed a member, it's not where he got the insulin."

"Not so well, then?"

"It's fine," Sherlock's voice joins them in the kitchen.

Greg glances toward the sitting room, then back to John. He shrugs. "He can be a charming bastard when it suits him."

"It's fine," Sherlock repeats.

Greg smiles. "Yeah, it's fine." Then raising his voice for Sherlock's benefit, "THIS time."

"So where DID he get the insulin? Online?" John takes the wet towels from Greg and drops them in the bin.

"Looks that way, but we're still checking it out. He had a stash of it in his flat, but no indication where it came from."

Sherlock finally joins them in person. "Unfortunately, he omitted that bit of exposition from his love letter to Molly."

John is appalled on Molly's behalf. "I'd hardly call it a love letter."

Sherlock flicks that away. "However poorly executed, that was his intent."

"Yeah, well I hope you don't put it that way in front of Molly."

Sherlock looks affronted. "Of course not. She read a copy. I'm sure she is capable of judging for herself."

John read it, too, and his skin crawls at the memory. Basil was as evil as they come, totally devoid of empathy or any shred of human emotion. To call that screed a love letter... "You know he never intended for Molly to be part of it. The three other women he listed, the ones he never got to, were who he would have killed next. He heard her leaving you a voicemail and he thought she knew more than she did. In the end, it was just a mistake."

"I have read the letter, John. So has Lestrade."

John exchanges a look with Greg. Sherlock's nonchalance isn't fooling either of them. He is still beating himself up for not having replied to Molly right away. He hasn't said that in so many words, but he doesn't have to. He believes he nearly got her killed, and it's going to take time for him to sort it out.

John visited with Molly nearly every day for the whole week she was recuperating at home, and it shouldn't have surprised him that she is more worried about Sherlock than anything else. She mentioned the letter to John, but only in the context of worrying that Sherlock would blame himself. She was right, of course, but it bothers John to no end that she's focusing on him instead of herself.

And yes, John is aware that he is guilty of the same thing, but that doesn't make it any healthier.

* * *

Barts Hospital Mortuary

Monday, September 28th

Molly looks up from her laptop when the doors open, and her face brightens immediately. "Hi! You've just missed Greg."

Sherlock walks straight to the workman who is on a tall ladder, perched near the far corner of the room.

John and Molly share a bemused look. "Easily distracted," John says loud enough for Sherlock to hear.

Molly chuckles. "He wants to supervise. The cameras are pretty much his doing."

Sherlock comes back to John and Molly looking pleased with himself. "I merely pointed out the security deficiencies to the appropriate parties."

"I'm sure I'll get used to it, but right now it feels a little... intrusive," Molly admits, then quickly reassures him, "but I do appreciate having them finally, Sherlock. I really do."

"Locking the barn door after the horse has gone," John chuckles.

Molly gives him a surprised smile. "John, that's exactly what I've been thinking! You read my mind."

Sherlock snorts. "It's a common saying. And in this case, not applicable." He gives Molly a teasing smile. "This time, the horse came back."

* * *

Author's Notes: I've taken a few liberties with the basement layout, but it's true to my own canon as described in another of my fics, Something Broken. I have no idea whether there even IS a basement outside of Molly's morgue, but it was a necessary element. My apologies to anyone who has actual knowledge of said basement. I researched the effects of insulin overdose, but haven't run them by a medical professional, so my apologies for any technical errors. I'm confident that the basics are correct. I wrote this after a LONG creative drought with the ultimate beta sevenpercent to keep things running smoothly as well as offer some excellent recommendations for respectable-but-not-outrageously-priced Port to keep the juices flowing. Thank you!- Ghyll


End file.
